Head Trip
by Evie McFarland
Summary: A psychopathic unsub appears to be targeting the entire team. Meanwhile, Reid gets poisoned with LSD.
1. Chapter 1

**A psychopathic unsub appears to be targeting the entire team; meanwhile, Reid gets poisoned with LSD. (Some people might die. Or become murderers. Or go insane. Depends on my mood.) I don't own criminal minds or any of the…(blahblahblah.)**

**Enjoy the story! :D**

"_All we have to believe with is our senses, the tools we use to perceive the world; our sight, our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not believe, then we still cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we must walk that road to the end." -Neil Gaiman_

"Clear!"

His teammate's cry was barely distinguishable, coming to him from the opposite end of a long hallway. Reid gritted his teeth, put his fingers on the doorknob in front of him, and pushed.

He felt a few moments of the familiar frightened anticipation; then let out a sigh of relief._"Clear!"_ Reid shouted back. He turned and walked out of the room, looking around for Morgan. He could feel his heart start to decelerate. They had checked all of the rooms, which meant that they were unlikely to encounter a psychotic unsub with a pickaxe; which meant a definite improvement to his morning.

However, he heard no reply from his friend. Reid frowned, but ultimately decided that he wasn't concerned; Morgan probably hadn't heard him.

"Morgan!" Reid shouted, louder this time. "The house is empty! Let's go!"

There was no reply.

Nervously, Reid started walking faster towards the other end of the hallway. "Morgan? Hello?" He suddenly heard a loud, clamoring crash from the other room; he put his hand on his gun, broke into a full-on sprint, and burst into the room seconds later.

"_Hey!"_ Reid stopped in his tracks as he came face to face with a surprised looking Morgan, who had simultaneously been trying to exit the room. "Calm down, kid! You trying to kill me?"

Sheepishly, Reid lowered his gun. He peered into the room; nothing appeared to have been broken.

"I said the room was clear," Morgan said, raising his eyebrows. "I don't do that for my health, you know."

Reid gesticulated confusedly with his hands. "Um," he said. "You didn't answer. I heard…I heard a crash."

Morgan frowned. "Crash? I didn't hear anything."

"It was—" he paused, then scratched his head. "It was a crash," he repeated. "Like…you know that sound when a drum-set falls over?"

Morgan shook his head slowly. "I think I would have heard that," he said.

"It was…" Reid sighed. "It was coming from _your _room," he snapped.

"Maybe something outside?" Morgan suggested diplomatically. Reid scowled back at him—he didn't like the _look _Morgan was giving him.

"Never mind," Reid muttered. "This house is freaking me out. Let's go."

They met Hotch and JJ a few miles away to have lunch.

"So then," Morgan was saying, as they were all sitting down, "Just as I was about to leave that place, Reid decided that he was going to try and _kill _me, and—"

"Oh, shut up," Reid snapped. JJ laughed at his angry expression, but Hotch raised his eyebrows.

"Everything alright, Reid?" he asked.

"Super," he muttered. "Maybe if _Morgan _had thought about answering me—"

"It was hard to hear in there," Morgan said hurriedly. He quickly turned his attention to the waitress, who had just arrived.

Reid let out an irritated sigh, then turned his gaze towards the window. _It's Morgan who's losing it, not me,_ he assured himself. _He wasn't paying enough attention…he needs to pay better attention to those kinds of things._ Then he frowned as his eyes fixated on an object in the distance. It was a rabbit.

_Pretty common in Vermont around this time of year, _he told himself. _So why can't I stop staring at it?_ He frowned, thought about it for a moment, then realized; he wasn't staring at the rabbit. The rabbit was staring at _him._

"Reid! Pay attention!" Hotch said, snapping his fingers in front of Reid's face.

Reid blinked, then turned towards the waitress. "Oh," he said. "Sorry. I'll have a coffee."

The waitress nodded, then turned and left the table.

"You _sure _everything's alright, Reid?" Morgan asked.

"Sure," Reid said. _So what if a rabbit is staring at you? Who cares? _"Fine."

"Well," Hotch said, "I think we can assume that the unsub will keep moving south. It's too late to set up roadblocks, but maybe if we can get ahead of him we can stop him from getting further."

"We don't _know _that he'll keep moving south," Morgan said.

"The geographical profile—"

"I know, but what if this guy's main goal isn't killing?" Morgan asked.

"He's got a destination," JJ said suddenly, meeting Morgan's eyes.

"Exactly," Morgan said, "If he's in the middle of a psychotic break, he might be on some sort of mission. If we can find out what and where his endgame is, we can—"

"I think that rabbit is getting closer."

Everyone on the team broke off and turned to stare at Reid.

"I'm sorry?" Morgan asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"No—_seriously_," Reid said, nodding out the window. "Look at it. It's staringat me."

Everyone stared out the window.

"There's no rabbit out there, Reid," JJ said eventually.

"No, you don't—okay, _look," _Reid said, clumsily pushing Morgan out of the way and getting to his feet. "That rabbit is—_woah."_ Reid let out a gasp as the room tilted sideways. "Are we having an earthquake?"

Everything was spinning very strangely; Reid put his hands up to stop himself from falling, before he realized there was nothing to hold onto. "What's _happening?"_ he demanded, looking back at the team of coworkers; who appeared to be spinning as well. He tried to take a step towards them; but his foot seemed to make contact with nothing but air. It felt like he was floating blindly for several seconds; then he collapsed to the floor.

Morgan felt a jolt of panic when he watched his friend fall over. "Reid!" he got to the ground and pulled him into a sitting position. His friend was conscious, but his eyes were unfocused, darting rapidly around the room. "What the hell is wrong with him?" he shouted at Hotch. People in the restaurant were staring at them.

"The last major earthquake in Vermont was on April tenth, 1962," Reid said. "Did you know that Australian rabbits destroy over $600 million dollars worth of crops every year?"

"Wait," Hotch said, slowly. Morgan moved out of the way as he approached, then bent down very close to Reid's face and stared into his eyes.

"It was a 4.2 on the Richter scale," Reid said, dazedly.

"His pupils are dilated," Hotch muttered. He stepped back and shook his head slowly.

"What?" Morgan asked.

"Am I going to die?" Reid asked.

Hotch stood up and stared at Reid with a half concerned, yet mildly amused expression. "No," he said. "I have no idea how, Reid, but I think you're tripping on acid."

"_What?"_ JJ demanded, sliding out of the booth and taking a step closer.

"He's high on LSD," Morgan offered helpfully. JJ shot him an irritated look.

"I _know," _she snapped, "I mean, _why _would he be high on LSD?"

Morgan shook his head slowly. "I have no idea…" he trailed off. "You think…maybe it was an accident?"

"Or someone poisoned him," Hotch said, darkly. "Reid? You need to tell us everything you've eaten or drank in the last hour." Reid didn't respond, however; he was staring at some point past Hotch's shoulder.

"It couldn't have been here," JJ said, "We haven't even gotten our drinks yet."

"Did you know that some rabbits can run up to thirty-five miles per hour?" Reid asked dazedly. "That's faster than cats."

"What's he _talking_ about?" JJ asked. She seemed to find no part of the situation even remotely amusing, and was staring at Reid with wide eyes.

"Doesn't matter," Hotch said, "We need to take him to a hospital. We've got no idea what kind he's taken, how much, what kind of side effects, if it even _is _LSD, specifically…"

"Right," Morgan said. "Come on, kid."

"Hey!" Reid shouted, as Morgan tried to grab his arm. "Which dimension is this?"

"The third dimension," Morgan said bemusedly, trying once again to grab a hold of Reid's arm.

"No," Reid said somberly, "I'm _serious. _Let's look at this graphically. If we don't calculate the vector correctly, we _aren't _going to know."

"I liked it better when he was talking about rabbits," Morgan muttered to Hotch.

"You can't take me!" Reid shouted. "You can't take me _anywhere!"_

"Come _on, _Reid," Morgan snapped. "We're just going for a quick car-ride. I promise we'll stay in the same dimension the entire time. Okay?"

"Did you know," Reid said, "That if you cut a hole through the center of the earth and eliminated friction and air pressure, if would take you forty-two minutes to get to the other side? Did you _know _that?"

"I didn't know that," Morgan said, patronizingly. "Thank you, Reid. Let's get to the car. Okay?"

Morgan managed to lead a confused looking Reid to the car, which was waiting outside.

"Are you _sure_ there's no earthquake?" Reid demanded.

Morgan rolled his eyebrows. _"Yes, _Reid, I can promise you that there's—" he broke off suddenly as he felt the ground move ever so slightly underneath him.

"That's good," Reid muttered, "It would've killed all the rabbits."

Morgan turned to look at JJ and Hotch, who were approaching the car several steps behind him. "Hey," he said, "Did you guys feel—"

Morgan was cut off as an unmistakable lurch flung him from his feet; he let out a shout, covering his face, and stared blankly ahead with an open mouth at the pile of rubble and fire which had formerly been a diner.

"Wha…?" Morgan turned to stare at Hotch and JJ, who were lying side by side on the ground. "What just happened?"

Hotch was already taking out his cell phone. "We need an fire engines and an ambulance here," he said, "117, Garrett lane. The building has just exploded. Get Vermont PD down here now."Hotch closed his phone and stared ahead blankly, breathing heavily. JJ hadn't moved the entire time; she seemed to be frozen in shock.

Hotch turned towards Morgan, recovering surprisingly quickly from the shock they had just experienced. "Either we're the most unlucky people in the world," he said, "Or the unsub hasn't left Vermont. He's not psychotic. He's psychopathic, and he knows where we are and what we're doing.

"We were just _in _there," JJ said softly; it seemed like she was unable to take her eyes off the building.

Morgan heard sirens in the background. "That means that Reid getting poisoned wasn't an accident, either," he muttered. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

Hotch's eyes widened suddenly, looking somewhere above Morgan's head. "What?" Morgan demanded.

Hotch blinked. "Where _is _Reid?" he asked sharply.

Morgan whipped his head around; while he had assumed that his friend had fallen to the ground beside him, there was nobody there.

"He was…he was right here…"Morgan sat up and looked around, wide-eyed. He got to his feet, then looked inside the car. "Reid! REID!"

He looked around desperately for several moments, calling Reid's name. Hotch and JJ got to their feet and began searching, too—but there was no sign of him anywhere in the parking lot. He was gone.

"He can't have gone far," Morgan said, frantically. He glanced over at Hotch—but his friend was already halfway across the parking lot, describing Reid to one of the police officers that had just arrived.

"This is bad," JJ said frantically, coming up beside him.

"How could I have let this happen?" Morgan snapped, furious with himself, "He thought there was an _earthquake, _for God's sake. He's terrified—not in his right mind—of _course _he would've run off."

"The _building_ exploded," JJ said, "You could hardly have been ready for that. It's the unsub's fault, not yours."

"If he's on LSD," Morgan muttered, ignoring her, "The trip could last for twelve hours. Maybe more."

"We'll find him," JJ said. "Don't worry. We always do."

Hotch approached them. "There was another attack five miles from here," he said. "At a gas station. Rossi and Prentiss were just outside."

They all froze. "Are they alright?" Morgan demanded.

Hotch nodded. "They're driving over now," he said. He shook his head slowly, then turned and stared as the EMTs pushed stretchers out of the collapsed rubble. "Morgan was right about the unsub having a target," he said. "But was wrong about what it was. The murders were just a ploy to get us interested in the case." He turned to face the pair of them with a weary look on his face. "The target is us."

**Thank you for reading! Opinions thus far? Reviews would be absolutely lovely :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for reading & reviewing! I don't usually reply to reviews unless there is a question, but I very much appreciate anyone who took the time to comment on/ help improve my story. So thanks!**

"_Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest kind of intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that is profound—does not spring from a disease of thought—from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect." –Edgar Allen Poe_

There were dead rabbits everywhere.

Reid kept his eyes shut and as he stumbled forwards, trying to ignore the breathing coming from behind him. The sound of the explosion was still ringing in his ears; red and orange and white and black and—

_Shut up, _Reid thought desperately. _Can't hear through all of the colors._

The breathing behind him was getting closer.

_Don't turn around. _

Reid couldn't make out street signs anymore; everything was empty and confusing and dark. He was alone.

_I shouldn't have run away._

There were dead rabbits everywhere.

_Can't hear. Too many colors. Too many dead rabbits. _

Reid smiled slightly. He'd had no idea that something dead could make so much noise.

"The dead make more noise than the living."

Reid froze. The breathing was right behind him now. Slowly, he turned and faced the figure before him. He blinked.

It was Tobias Hankel.

Morgan was yelling at Hotch.

"You couldn't possibly _know _it was LSD!" he shouted. "What if he's actually schizophrenic? How are we supposed to find him, then?"

"I've seen it a million times," said Hotch, who seemed surprisingly calm. "Dilated pupils—accelerated breathing rate—"

"It could have been dialudid," Morgan snapped. "You know he's had problems—"

"You're being irrational, Morgan," Hotch snapped. "Dilaudid would have depressed heart rate; he would have been incoherent, lethargic; and his pupils would have _constricted, _not dilated. He had all of the symptoms of psychedelic drugs—you would have agreed with me if it was _anyone_ but Reid."

"But you can't know it was LSD," Morgan insisted. "Mescaline? DMT? Tryptamine? There are so many other things—"

"Fine," Hotch snapped. "Does it really matter? I assumed we were taking him to the hospital. How the hell was I supposed to know the building was going to explode?"

"I just want to make sure you're giving them the right information," he snapped. "If they're ever going to find him—"

"We're wasting time," Hotch said. "We've given the search party all of the information we can."

"They'd have to search the entire city—"

"Stop," Hotch interrupted firmly. "We _need _to focus on the unsub. We can't do anything for Reid right now—"

"So, what?" Morgan snapped. "We're supposed to wait until Reid comes to his senses and wanders back to us?" A small group of police officers were milling around watching the argument; the rest of the team sat rather far off, lost in their own thoughts.

Hotch gritted his teeth. "Unfortunately," he said, "We have no other choice."

Reid shook his head quickly, as if to clear it. The figure was hazy and strange looking, as if Reid were looking at a reflection in a pool of water.

"You aren't real," he said. His voice sounded hoarse and unsure, even to himself.

Tobias took a step forward. "I'm a hallucination," he said.

Reid blinked. "Well, at least you're honest about it," he said weakly. He turned and continued walking, pressing his hands against his ears.

Reid heard Tobias speak again, as if he were right beside him. "That doesn't mean I'm not real," Tobias said, "And it doesn't mean you should ignore me."

Reid stopped, then turned to look at him. "I'm pretty sure it does," he said.

Tobias smirked. "I'm a hallucination," he repeated. "Which means that I'm a manifestation of your subconscious. Which means that I'm _you._"

"Go away." Reid turned and continued walking.

"Are you afraid of yourself?"

Irritated, Reid turned around again. "No," he snapped, "I can barely hear through all the rabbits because I'm tripping on acid, and I really don't need you complicating things for me." He tried to continue walking, but came up short as he saw Tobias standing in front of him.

"The profile is wrong," Tobias said.

"Get out of my way," Reid snarled.

"There's a reason you felt an earthquake before," Tobias said. "You notice things other people don't; even if you don't _know _you've noticed it."

"If you're me," Reid snapped, "Why am I going to such great lengths to annoy myself?"

"Because I know things you don't," Tobias said. "_You _know things you don't."

"That makes absolutely no sense," Reid snapped, "I'm really not interested in listening to the drug induced ramblings of my own mind, _thank _you. I have to figure out where I am, find my team—"

"You _knew_ the building was going to explode," Tobias said. "You just thought it was an earthquake."

Reid sighed. "Are you trying to convince me I had a premonition?"

"No," Tobias said. "Just that you knew the profile was wrong. Just like _I _know the profile is wrong. You knew _something. _We can't trust coincidence. That's not logical."

"More logical than premonitions," Reid said. He tried to keep walking faster, but eventually had to stop when Tobias appeared directly in front of him once again.

"You should really know better than to try and run from your own subconscious," Tobias said.

Reid pressed his hands against his eyes. "I'm hallucinating because I'm tripping on acid," he muttered to himself. "None of this is real. The rabbits aren't real. It's because of the drugs. You can't taste colors. You can't hear things that are dead. You can't hear things that don't make any noise." He slid into a sitting position, leaning against the wall.

"Are you sure about that?" Tobias asked. Reid felt Tobias slide down beside him.

Reid ignored him and continued to chant to himself.

"You can't _know _this is from the drugs," Tobias said.

"Hotch said my pupils were dilated," Reid snapped. "I heardhim."

"You've been hearing a lot of things that aren't there, lately," Tobias said. "Maybe you just heard what you _wanted _to hear."

"Shut up," Reid snapped, "There's no other explanation. For the rabbits. For…the _colors._"

"Unless you actually _are _losing it," Tobias said. Reid heard a smirk in his voice.

"I hate you."

"Ouch," Tobias replied, a hint of mockery still in his voice. "Defensive, much? You know, I can't tell you anything you don't already know—and I also can't lie to you." Reid ignored him. "How do you even know the explosion was real?"

"Because…." Reid trailed off, and shook his head. "Because of the _rabbits!" _he moaned, pressing his hands over his ears to block out the noise.

He could still hear Tobias laughing. "You know you're in bad shape," he said, "When your hallucination tells you what a lunatic you're being."

Reid inhaled deeply, then exhaled again. He didn't answer.

"You _need _me," Tobias said. "For now, at least."

Reid ignored him.

"And even if it _is_ the drugs," Tobias continued, in a silky, dangerous voice, "LSD can trigger psychosis in people with a predisposition to schizophrenia. Especially with your, ah…_previous _drug history. If the neuron pathways get screwed enough…you could be _stuck _like this." Reid could practically hear the smirk in his voice, although he kept his eyes closed. "You know the statistics, I assume? You know the—"

"SHUT UP!" Tobias finally fell into silence, but didn't disappear; Reid took several, deep breaths to try and calm himself. When Tobias finally spoke again, it was in a much different tone.

"I'm not your enemy, you know," he said quietly, "I'm just telling you the things you're already thinking. The things you already know."

Reid let out a long sigh. "I know," he muttered. "It's not your fault." He shook his head slowly. "This isn't how I thought it would be," he muttered. "I've read accounts of experiences with LSD, and…"

"How did you think it would be?" Tobias asked him.

Reid sighed. "I don't know," he muttered. "Maybe I thought it would be…_fun. _Or pleasant, like the Dilaudid. Some sort of an…_escape._" He took a deep breath. "It's not an escape," he muttered. "It's the opposite. I can't stop thinking about…" he trailed off, then turned his head towards Tobias. He sighed, giving in. "You said the profile was wrong."

"Telling you what you already know," Tobias said.

"But _what's _wrong about it?" Reid asked. "I can't just _know _things. There has to be something—something that clued me in—"

"Maybe there is," Tobias said. "You just can't remember it. You just need to remember. Think back—where were you when you got poisoned? If you _are _on drugs, you must've ingested them somehow."

Reid shut his eyes. "I don't know," he muttered. "We were at the unsub's house—I didn't drink anything there—"

"What about before?"

"We were at the crime scene. There wouldn't have been time—" he broke off suddenly. "I went to the coffee shop before then…"

"Two hours before," Tobias said. "Still too much of a time difference from the onset of your symptoms."

"No," Reid said suddenly, "There _would _have been time!" He turned to Tobias excitedly. "The coffee was too hot—remember? I didn't drink it until right before we went into the house."

Tobias grinned at him. "See?" he said. "You _do _need my help."

Reid got to his feet, excitedly. "We have to find the team," he said.

"Why?" Tobias asked, appearing in front of him and blocking his way. "They'll only take you to the hospital. You _heard _them say it."

"Well, sure…" Reid said slowly.

"They don't _know _the profile's wrong. And they won't listen to you, because they think you're all messed up."

"Huh," Reid muttered. "But I'm _not _all messed up. Not that messed up, anyways; I'm hallucinating, but I'm not illogical."

"People aren't like you," Tobias said. "Maybe it affects you differently. Affects you _better._ And if the unsub is trying to kill your team…"

Reid nodded slowly. "We need to figure this out," he muttered. "While there's still time…" He watched in stupefaction as the dead bodies of the rabbits slowly began to melt away; as if they were being drained into a gutter; things didn't seem nearly as frightening anymore. "So, what should I do?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Tobias asked. "You need to go back to the coffee shop. Find the unsub. Solve the case. Save your team. They'll never underestimate you again—no more of those sideways glances, wondering if you've lost it already—they'll know that you _can't _lose it; and you're know it, too. Even when you're crazy, you're smarter; you can figure things out faster; see things clearer. Because you aren't likemost people. Because you're _better._"

Reid glanced sideways at Tobias. "I had no idea my subconscious was so arrogant," he said. Then he smiled. "But I kind of like it."

Tobias smiled back. "It's not called arrogance if you're right."

Reid followed Tobias Hankel to the end of the alleyway, out towards the street. After several steps, however, he stopped, frowning. "But what if we're not right?" he asked. "We can't be sure…it could be a trap. It could be dangerous. We could be wrong."

Tobias shrugged. "You can never _know _that you're right," he said. "I just find it difficult to assume otherwise." He took another few steps, then turned to face Reid. "Are you _coming, _or what?"

After a split second of hesitation, Reid nodded to himself. The rabbits were gone—how crazy could he be? He followed Tobias Hankel out of the alleyway and into the daylight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for reading & reviewing! You're all awesome.**

"_I don't want to be a genius—I have enough problems just trying to be a man."-Albert Camus_

"We're lost." Reid let out a sigh, massaging his head. "Either we've passed that dumpster three times, or it doesn't actually exist and I'm inexplicably hallucinating identical dumpsters all over the city."

Tobias did not seem to be nearly as worried as Reid was about their current predicament. With surprising agility—which, Reid then decided, was not very surprising giving the fact that he was a hallucination—Tobias hopped on top of the dumpster and gave Reid an amused smile. "We'll get there eventually," he said. "You've got an eidetic memory. You remember _everything._"

Reid stared despondently at the wall, then sighed. "I'm an idiot," he muttered, "I couldn't find my way back to the restaurant after the explosion. How could I let you convince me to go looking for a coffee shop two miles away?"

"I'm very convincing," Tobias said, now balancing on one foot off the side of the dumpster. "And we _will _find it. Remember how I can't lie to you? You just aren't _thinking _correctly."

Reid gritted his teeth. "How am I supposed to think, then?"

Tobias rolled his eyes, then turned around and sat cross-legged on the dumpster, facing Reid. "I'll help you," he said, grinning excitedly.

"You know," Reid said, "You're nothing like the actual Tobias Hankel."

"Why would I be?" Tobias asked. "Now, _focus. _Do you remember the address?"

Reid sighed, then closed his eyes. "Of course," he said. "87 Lincoln Street. 1.78 miles from the crime scene."

"What was the address of the restaurant?"

"29 Boulevard Street. 1.3 miles from the crime scene." Suddenly, it was as if a light-bulb went off in his mind. "I remember the map. If the crime scene is the origin—it makes a triangle—we could figure out that the coffee shop is—"

"Approximately 1.85 miles northwest of here."

There was a beat of silence. Reid blinked at Tobias, thought for another moment, before he came to the same conclusion. "You're smarter than me?" he asked, rather skeptically.

"Don't be an idiot," Tobias said. "You're smarter than you know. Let's go."

"Wait," Reid interrupted. "If we don't know where we are _now, _then that information is completely useless to us. We don't know which direction is northwest." Simultaneously, they glanced up at the street-sign.

"Powell Lane?" Tobias asked.

Reid nodded slowly. "I remember," he said. "It's perpendicular to Cornwall, so that means…" he trailed off, then sighed. "We've been walking in the wrong direction this whole time," he muttered, rather grumpily. He turned and started walking the other way down the street.

"Don't blame me," Tobias called, hopping off the dumpster and jogging after him. "I_ told _you that you need to focus."

**O**

"We have to assume he got poisoned at the unsub's house," Hotch said. "It can't be a coincidence."

"Wait a second," a nearby police officer interrupted. "You already found his home?"

"The license plate of a car at two previous crime scenes matched the license plate of a car seen driving to the house," JJ explained. "But there's no record of it; the house has been technically abandoned for years." She turned to Hotch. "We have no idea what he could be hiding in there."

"But it's impossible," Morgan said. "He didn't drink anything there. He didn't even _touch _anything. We were in there for less than two minutes—we hadn't even searched the place yet. It was just a routine check. In and out."

"Some poisons that are transferred through the air," Hotch said, "Just by entering the house—"

"Very few are hallucinogenic," Morgan said, "And why wouldn't I be sick, too?"

"So, what?" Hotch asked. "It's a coincidence?"

"The unsub could have poisoned him somewhere else," Rossi said. "He knew where we were eating lunch."

"He must have bugged the crime scene," Hotch muttered. "You and I were talking about our plans before we all left—but there's _no way _he could have known where we were before that point." Hotch sighed, then turned to Morgan. "Did you go anywhere after the crime scene?"

Morgan shook his head. "We went directly to the house," he muttered. "We went to a coffee shop beforehand, but…"

"There's no way he could have known about that," Hotch said, dismissively. "It's got to be either the crime scene or the house…" He closed his eyes, rubbing his temple with his thumb. "We're missing something," he muttered, "I just can't figure out what."

**O**

"We're missing something," Reid said to Tobias.

"No," Tobias said, walking backwards several paces ahead of Reid, his thumbs in his pockets. "We're going the right direction now."

"That's not it," Reid muttered. "How would the unsub have known we were going to a coffee shop?"

"He must have known somehow," Tobias said. "That's where you got poisoned. Come on! We'll figure it out when we get there, right?"

"Unless…" Reid trailed off, then came to a stop. "Unless we're thinking about this the wrong way."

Tobias slowed to a stop, frowning. "How so?"

Reid shook his head slightly. "I'm an idiot," he muttered.

"No," Tobias insisted, "You're—"

"Listen," Reid interrupted, turning towards him. "We assumed the poison came from the coffee shop because it was in my coffee."

"Well," Tobias said. "That makes the most sense."

"No," Reid said. "It doesn't. The coffee came from the coffee shop—the _poison _came from the crime scene."

A devilish grin slowly came onto Tobias' face. "The unsub didn't bug the crime scene," he said, "The unsub was _at _the crime scene."

"_Hey!"_

Reid whipped around suddenly, upon hearing a voice; he saw the fuzzy outline of a man who hadn't been there mere seconds before. "Hey, you have to come look at this!" As vague as the figure was, it seemed strangely familiar somehow. "Dr. Reid!" The figure shouted. "Please, come look!"

Alarmed, Reid looked around for Tobias; he caught sight of him leaning against the wall. "Is this a memory?" Reid asked. Tobias didn't answer; he just nodded Reid forwards. Reid frowned. "Is that the unsub?" he asked.

Tobias stared at the figure for a long moment, before turning his eyes to Reid. "There's something in your hand," he said.

Reid glanced down at his hands; he frowned. "No," he said. "My right hand feels hot, though…" he trailed off. "I have to put it down," he muttered.

"Where?" Tobias asked.

Reid blinked. "I put it on the park bench," he said. He took a step towards the figure. "I'm supposed to be looking at the body." Reid took a hesitant step towards the figure. "I have to…"

"There's someone behind you." Reid froze; he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. The figure in front of him vanished. He became immediately aware of nothing but a strange, dark presence coming from behind him.

"He's there," Reid whispered. "I knew the building would explode…"

"Did you turn around?"

Reid closed his eyes. "Yes…but I wasn't looking at him…I was looking at Morgan…" He closed his eyes. "And I saw…" A sudden flash appeared in front of him; two snapshots of a face; one old, one young; a gray pickup truck—and—

"Hey, are you alright?"

Reid let out a cry of alarm as he felt a hand on his shoulder; he whipped around in confusion; it was a young man, with a woman standing behind him. The man's voice seemed warped and strange; Reid pressed his hands over his ears.

"Do you need to go to a hospital?" the young man asked. "You look hurt."

"Get away from them," Tobias snapped suddenly, appearing beside Reid.

"Wh—what happened to the unsub?" Reid stammered. "Who are you?"

"John, be _careful,"_ the girl said nervously.

"Are…are you real?" Reid asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Get _away _from them," Tobias repeated, snarling angrily.

"I think he was in some kind of accident," John called back to Rachel. "Hey—look we can take you to the hospital—"

"They want to take you to the hospital," Tobias said, "They don't want you to solve the case."

"They…they don't want…" Reid trailed off, staring at John with wide eyes.

"Rachel, I'm calling an ambulance," John called to the girl.

"_Run!"_ Tobias shouted. _"What are you doing?"_

Reid took a nervous step back. "N-no," he muttered. "Not to the hospital. Tell my team…tell my team I'm working the case. Okay? I've got it all figured out. It was the coffee. I put it down. The unsub isn't at the house. Okay? It's for show. The poison was hiding in the park, and a chemistry set, and a gray pickup truck…"

"Hey, wait—" John reached out for Reid's shoulder again; but he jerked it away. He turned immediately and sprinted away back down the alley. He only stopped running after his legs became unstable; he slumped against the wall, panting desperately. He tried to rest his hands on his knees, but couldn't—his whole body was shaking.

"I can't hear again," he muttered. "The colors…"

Tobias slid down next to him. "It's alright," he said. "Everything will be alright once we solve the case."

Reid still couldn't stop himself from shaking. "How do you know?" he asked eventually, trying to stop his voice from wavering.

Tobias smiled. "Because it will be logical," he said. "Because it will make _sense_. Isn't it nice, when that's the only thing that matters? Isn't that all that _really_ matters, in the end?"

Reid swallowed nervously. "My team…"

"Won't figure it out fast enough," Tobias said. "They don't have all the evidence. You remember what the unsub looked like. You remember his truck. You have to go back to the crime scene—back to the park."

Reid shook his head slowly. "He'll be gone by then," he muttered, "I have to tell my _team_…"

"So they can lock you up in a hospital for a day, while they run around getting themselves killed?" Tobias asked. "You saw the chemicals in the house—in the first room, out of the corner of your eye. That's how you knew the building was going to explode."

Reid put his face in his hands. "I didn't _know _anything," he muttered. "I didn't _do _anything."

"Some part of you did," Tobias said. "Maybe that's why I'm here. To help it make sense. To help you remember. To help save your team."

Reid finally put a stop to the shaking; he pressed his hands against the wall, then took several deep breaths. Eventually, he looked up; Tobias was still there. He was smiling.

Reid pressed his hands against the wall again, pushing himself to his feet. "Okay," he said determinedly, although his voice was still shaking slightly. "Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Sorry it took me a little bit longer than usual to update; I've been busy doing all of that "applying-to-college" stuff lately (FUCK.) Anyways—enjoy the chapter!**

"_There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased that line." –Oscar Levant_

"So, this is the room?" Hotch was standing next to Morgan, frowning.

"It was the last one we cleared," Morgan said. "He went in here."

Hotch glanced quickly around the room; it was generally empty except for the corner, where there was a plastic tub filled with dusty bottles containing several different colored liquids. Hotch approached the box, picking up one of the bottles.

"What is it?" Morgan asked.

Hotch frowned. "These almost look like…_chemicals," _he muttered, frowning to himself.

"Chemicals? Which chemicals?" Morgan demanded.

Hotch gave him an exasperated look. "Yes, let's open them and find out," he said sarcastically.

To Hotch's surprise, Morgan became incredibly angry. "Well, _I'm _sorry," he snapped, "I'm trying to find out what poisoned my friend. I don't know what you're doing."

Hotch frowned at Morgan. "Key word being _poisoned," _he said, raising his eyebrows. "But it's doubtful it was caused by any of these—they're all closed, and I don't think it's likely he opened and drank any of them." Hotch returned the bottle to the box. "Did he mention anything to you about these?"

Morgan shook his head. "No," he said, "We weren't _searching _the house. He was just supposed to make sure the room was clear. He probably didn't even see them."

"Well," Hotch muttered, "I'm sending them to the lab, anyways. They might be connected to the unsub."

"Or, they could be bottles of water and food coloring, and we're completely wasting our time," Morgan snapped.

Hotch ignored the comment. "So, we've searched all the other rooms?" he asked.

"Supposedly," Morgan said, "But maybe we should just—"

"No," Hotch interrupted. "JJ and Rossi can stay here and do a more thorough investigation; we need to go back to the crime scene. It's all cleaned up by now, but there might be some clues that we missed. It could have some special significance to the unsub that we're missing."

Morgan shook his head. "We should keep looking here. Something here might _still_ have poisoned him, and—"

"Morgan," Hotch snapped. "We have a psychopathic unsub trying to kill our team. I know that you want to find Reid—so do I—and I know that you feel guilty about what happened. But you can't let your guilt interfere with your judgment. Catching the unsub is our first priority. We don't have time to waste."

Morgan gritted his teeth. "He's our friend," he said, furiously.

"And you're a federal agent," Hotch replied. "Start acting like it."

It was at this point that the police officer who had accompanied them chose to enter the room; upon taking in Morgan's expression, the smaller man took a step back.

"They're saying we should head back to the station," he said.

"Thanks, Officer Booker," Hotch replied. "We've got some chemicals here we need to take to the lab."

Booker frowned at the plastic tub. "How do you know they're chemicals?" he asked.

"We don't," Hotch said. "We're guessing."

"Pretty far-out guess," Booker said, raising his eyebrows and giving Hotch a half-smile.

"Not that far-out, seeing as the unsub is familiar with explosives," Hotch replied grimly. "We're going back to the crime scene—you should come with us."

"Right," Booker said. He glanced at Morgan nervously, then turned his eyes back to Hotch. "Hey, any new leads about the missing agent? You know—the one who likes coffee?"

"No," Morgan snapped. He stormed past the pair of them, pushing Booker out of the way.

"That's a little rude," Booker observed, although he seemed more surprised than offended.

"It's been a rough day," Hotch muttered, "Come on."

**O**

"Why is there nobody _here?" _Tobias demanded peevishly, peering around the empty park.

"Well," Reid said, "It might have something to do with the murder that took place a few days ago. Doesn't exactly make for a popular tourist destination."

"Neither does a crazy guy talking to himself," Tobias said to Reid jokingly. "But, _hey. _What can you do?" Reid shot Tobias an irritated look, but didn't respond. He walked over to the bench where he'd put his coffee the day before.

"Hey,"Tobias said, tagging along behind Reid, "I'm _tired. _You know that? We haven't slept in thirty-six hours."

Reid sighed. "We walk all the way here," he said, "And all you'vegot to say is that you're _tired?"_

"I _am."_

Reid rolled his eyes and turned away from Tobias. "It doesn't matter," he muttered. "We've got to focus. Okay?"

"On _what?_" Tobias snapped. "There's nobody here." He yawned. "Let's just take a nap."

"You're not being very helpful, you know," Reid muttered, although he also let out an enormous yawn.

"See? You are tired," Tobias said, triumphantly.

"Mirror neuron reaction," Reid snapped. "Are you going to help, or what?"

"Fine," Tobias said. "It was all about turning around—think back to when you turned around."

Reid took several steps forwards. "I was almost at the body," he muttered. "Three steps—no, three and a half. Then I turned around."

"Why?"

Reid scratched his head. "Morgan," he said. "Morgan said something to me."

"Are you sure?" Tobias asked.

Reid closed his eyes. "He was talking to that police officer…the small one…"

"Lloyd Booker?" Tobias asked.

Reid blinked. "I can't_ believe _you remembered that," he said, "I wasn't even paying attention."

"The subconscious mind is a wonderful thing," Tobias said briskly. "Now, _focus. _What do you see? Who was standing near the bench?"

Reid closed his eyes, frowning. "Morgan…but he didn't poison me…"

"There was someone else there," Tobias said. "Someone that moved towards the cup—"

"No," Reid said suddenly. Tobias froze.

"Why not?"

"It was a closed crime scene," he muttered. "There were no civilians allowed…"

Tobias said nothing.

"It would have been impossible for the unsub to get in without anyone noticing him," Reid said. "Let alone do anything to my coffee…"

Tobias shook his head slowly. "We're wrong?" he muttered in disbelief. He turned towards the bench, open-mouthed.

"Why didn't I realize that?" Reid shook his head, blinking. He took a step backwards. "It's impossible…it's all impossible…what time is it?"

Tobias was staring at the bench. He turned around. "I don't know," he said. "Why?"

Reid narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on the number on his watch. "It's been nineteen hours," he muttered. "Nineteen hours since the coffee…" He blinked. "You should be gone by now," he whispered to Tobias. "Why are you still here?"

Tobias held his gaze. "Don't…don't be stupid," he said. "I'm _supposed _to be here. Remember?"

"No," Reid took a step away from him. "You're…you're _not._ You should be gone by now…_if _someone had poisoned my coffee…but they couldn't have…because it was a closed crime scene…" Reid gazed openmouthed at Tobias. "It's all impossible…"

"_DON'T!" _Tobias's loud shriek filled his ears; Reid clasped his head, falling to the ground. "_DON'T DO THIS. YOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO. WE HAVEN'T SOLVED THE CASE."_

"Leave me alone," Reid moaned, "We can't solve it…we were wrong…"

"We _aren't _wrong!" Tobias was standing inches away from his face. "We've got all the evidence. _All _of the evidence. We can figure it out. We can—"

"_REID!" _

Reid shouted and clasped his hands tighter over his head, thinking that the screeching was still coming from Tobias. He let out a cry when he felt a large arm grasp his shoulder—he flailed out desperately with his fist in an attempt to defend himself.

"Reid! Hey! Calm down, man! Calm down!" Reid blinked, then narrowed his eyes as he focused in on a familiar face.

"M…Morgan?" he mumbled, confused and relieved.

"Everything's fine," Morgan said, who looked equally relieved. "You alright?"

"_What are you doing?" _hissed Tobias. _"Get away from him." _Reid ignored him.

"I…" Reid trailed off. "I think I need to go to the hospital," he whispered slowly.

"I think so, too," Morgan chuckled, extending a hand to help Reid to his feet. Reid took it—cast Tobias a dirty look—and then his eyes fell on the two people waiting several feet away. First, he saw Hotch; looked concerned, but also deeply relieved; he had a small smile on his face. Then, Reid glanced at the man standing next to him.

Reid froze.

"Reid?" Morgan asked, raising his eyebrows. "You okay?"

Reid turned away slowly, looking back at the bench. He suddenly heard Tobias's voice in his ear."There are explanations for everything," the voice whispered. "Everything is explainable, even if you don't know the answer."

"I turned around…" Reid muttered. "It was a closed crime scene…"

"Reid?" Morgan asked, sounding concerned. "Are you alright?"

Reid turned, instead towards Tobias, who was now standing directly in front of him. "The unsub," he whispered.

"_Reid? _What's going on?" Morgan demanded.

Reid grinned a triumphantly at Tobias. Tobias returned the smile.

"We were right."


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry it's been taking me longer than usual to update—my life is slightly alkoaljdskhf1nh3udlkfjl7flkj d right now—but I hope to update again relatively soon. Thanks for reading and reviewing! Enjoy the chapter! **

"_The reason I talk to myself is because I'm the only one whose answers I accept." –George Carlin_

"Just _listen _to me, Morgan!"

Morgan let out an irritated sigh, glancing over at his friend. "Reid, if you don't go to sleep, I'm going to have them anesthetize you." He returned to the magazine he had been reading—he wasn't _really_ interested in fall apparel, but he was hoping that Reid would take his disinterest as a sign that he should try and get some rest.

Morgan saw Reid glance towards the corner for a suspicious number of seconds. "No, _listen," _he said, finally returning Morgan's gaze. "It's Booker. It's _him. _I saw him behind me—he poisoned me—_he's_ the unsub. I_ remember."_

"I'm not going to accuse a police officer of murder because you've lost your mind," Morgan snapped, exasperatedly. "It was bad enough when you freaked out and started yelling at the poor guy back at the park. Go to _sleep. _We can talk about this when you're feeling better."

"There isn't _time!" _Reid snapped; his eyes were wide and excited. "We need some coffee," he muttered to himself. "I can't go to sleep," he continued, returning his eyes to Morgan. "Listen. How _else _would the unsub know where we were eating lunch? How _else _would I have been poisoned? It was closedcrime scene! I _saw _him! There's no other way!"

"Just because we haven't thoughtof another explanation doesn't mean there isn'tone," Morgan said, trying to be diplomatic. "I'm serious, Reid. Stop working yourself up. I _will _call the nurse."

"There _are _no other explanations," Reid snapped. "Whenever you have eliminated the impossible; whatever remains, however improbable, _must _be—"

"Stop quoting fictional characters and _go to_ _sleep,_" Morgan snapped, with a tone of finality. Like a child, Reid folded his arms angrily and fell back onto his pillow, staring bemusedly at the corner.

"That doesn't look like sleeping to me," Morgan said, after several moments.

Reid ignored him and continued to stare at the corner.

Irritated, Morgan got to his feet and walked outside into the waiting room. Hotch was on his phone; he turned around as Morgan approached him. Hotch snapped his phone shut.

"That was the sheriff," he snapped, "Agent Booker asked to be taken off the case."

Morgan sighed. "Can't say I blame him, considering what Reid said. _I _sure as hell wouldn't want to work with a guy who accuses me of murder; no matter _what_ state of mind he's in."

Hotch sighed. "We're never going to get asked back again," he muttered. He shook his head slightly—as if trying to clear it—then turned to Morgan. "Ready to go?"

"No," Morgan said, sighing. "I kind of want to stick around. He's obviously still delusional—still trying to convince me that—"

"The doctors weren't concerned," Hotch interrupted him, calmly. "They said it's not uncommon—"

"You told them he was poisoned _in the past day. _It's been over twenty-four hours. It isn't supposed to last more than twelve, Hotch. We've got _no idea _what this stuff is doing to him."

"Will you _just—" _Hotch appeared to be on the verge of an angry outburst, but controlled himself. "Look," he said, "You're right—we have no idea. Because we're _not doctors_. He just needs rest, like the _doctors_ said." Hotch gritted his teeth, however, looking even angrier than before; he did not seem convinced by his own argument.

"He's not _getting _any rest," Morgan snapped. "Maybe they could give him something to help—"

"Give him more drugs, when they don't know what drugs he's currently on?" Hotch asked, raising his eyebrows. Morgan frowned, but couldn't think of a response."It will wear off eventually," Hotch continued sternly. "He'll be fine. For now, we have work to do. Let's go."

Morgan sighed; he glanced once last time at the room where Reid was sitting; _still _not asleep, naturally; then turned and followed Hotch out the door.

**O**

"None of them trust you," Tobias said. "I _told _you this would happen."

"Well, maybe Morgan's right," Reid muttered. "I _shouldn't _be hallucinating anymore. You're supposed to be gone by now."

"There aren't any rabbits, are there?" Tobias asked.

"That's not the _point,_" Reid snapped, rolling his eyes.

Tobias sighed. "Well," he said. "You haven't slept in forty hours. Lack of R.E.M. sleep can cause hallucinations."

"So, I _should _go to sleep," Reid said, raising his eyebrows.

"Oh, yes," Tobias said mockingly, "Excellent idea. Just take a nap—I'll disappear—and your team can get murdered by a psychopathic killer while you're busy resting. That sounds like a great idea. Worthy of a genius, really."

Reid frowned. "There's no need to be sarcastic about it," he muttered.

"You're a very sarcastic person, actually," Tobias said. "You know…_subconsciously." _

Reid sighed. "So, what should I do, then?" he snapped.

"Well," Tobias said, "Thanks to your…_brilliant _outburst back at the park, Booker knows you're onto him now."

Reid sighed. "I had to warn them," he muttered sheepishly. "It was all so sudden—"

"That doesn't matter anymore," Tobias interrupted. "_Listen. _You've already solved the case." He shrugged. "Now you've just got to _prove _that you've solved the case."

"I can't." Reid sighed. "They think I'm nuts. And if I keep trying to convince them, they'll think I'm _permanently _nuts."

"There has to be some evidence," Tobias said. "Not just circumstantial evidence—_real_ evidence. Nobody's infallible. Booker _must_ have slipped up somewhere." He grinned at Reid. _"We _just need to find it."

Reid smiled slowly. "Right," he muttered. "I guess we do."

**O**

"There's something wrong with the profile," Hotch muttered. They had returned once more to the crime scene, after the encounter with Reid had cut their previous visit short.

Morgan turned around. "Huh? What do you mean?"

"We didn't discuss motive earlier, because we thought the unsub was psychotic," muttered Hotch. "But now that we know he's _psychopathic, _instead…where's the motive?"

"Power? Revenge?" Morgan shrugged. "There are millions of people with plenty of motive to get even with the police—why does this guy have to be different?"

"But why _us?" _Hotch asked. "He could have just antagonized the local police force. That would be more personal_, _anyways. Why is he targeting _us_, specifically?"

"Well," Morgan said, "This guy obviously has above-average intelligence. He probably wants to prove to himself—and to us—that he can outsmart the FBI."

"Maybe…." Hotch muttered. "But there's something more…"

Just then, the phone rang.

"Garcia?" Hotch asked, answering.

"Sir," Garcia said, rather slowly. "The DNA results of the hair found on the body came back."

"Alright, Garcia, what is it?" Hotch asked excitedly, glancing at Morgan.

"Unfortunately, they don't mean much of anything," she said. "It was a match to Officer Booker. It must have accidentally gotten on the body while you were examining the crime scene."

Hotch was silent for several moments. "Oh," he muttered eventually.

"Yeah," Garcia said. "This guy is even more careful than we thought. How's Reid, by the way? I haven't had a chance to see him. JJ just went over there now to visit him."

"He's, um…" Hotch shook his head slowly, trying to clear it. "Getting better. Thanks, Garcia."

"Alright, sir good—"

Hotch hung up the phone, then turned towards Morgan with a half-open mouth.

"What is it?" Morgan asked.

"It's…nothing," Hotch muttered. _It's just a coincidence, _he thought to himself. _Accidents happen. Crime scenes get contaminated all the time. There's no _real _evidence—he doesn't fit the profile, either—_

"Seriously, Hotch, what's the matter?" Morgan asked.

"The, um…" he trailed off, then cleared his throat. "The DNA test was inconclusive. It's nothing, really." He turned around, irritated, and looked out across the park. "We…we obviously need to check for more evidence. That's all?"

"How can a DNA test be inconclusive?" Morgan asked skeptically.

Hotch opened his mouth to answer—but he was saved as his phone started ringing again.

He flipped it open. "JJ? What—"

"Hotch," she said frantically. "I went to his room to check on him, but it was empty—I asked a nurse, and she said they had been called away for an emergency code—and they had thought he was asleep—and his clothes are gone, but nobody saw anything—and he must have snuck out while the nurses were busy—and—"

"JJ!" Hotch interrupted, forcing the young woman to stop babbling. "What are you saying?"

He heard her take a deep breath from the other end of the line. "Nobody can find him anywhere, Hotch," she said eventually. "Reid is gone."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! This chapter is a little bit longer—I hope you like it! :D**

"_I quite agree with the assertion that most men of genius are insane. What is often forgotten, however, is that most sane people are idiots."-Oscar Wilde_

Reid was starting to feel dizzy. He kept hearing a strange sort of chanting, echoing in the back of his head; he wasn't sure if it was another hallucination, or something he was consciously repeating to himself. It was difficult to distinguish between the conscious and subconscious by this point—and he felt _so dizzy…_

_Keep walking—the house—we have to go back to the house. We have to find Booker—at the house—_

Tobias walked beside him, watching him with dark and contemplative eyes. He said nothing; but Reid could feel a strange, desperate sort of encouragement in the silence.

"I feel sick," Reid muttered, more to himself than anything else.

"Well, you haven't eaten or drunk anything besides coffee," Tobias reminded him. "And you haven't slept in almost two days…"

_It's getting dark again. You're running out of time. Shouldn't have left the hospital—why didn't Morgan believe us—?_

"This was your idea," Reid muttered. "I should go back to the hospital…I feel _sick…"_

"So you'll let your team die, because _you _feel sick?" Tobias asked.

_Keep walking. He's trying to kill them—trying to kill them—they don't believe us—_

"Once we solve the case, we can sleep," Tobias said.

_Keep going—back to the house—there must be evidence—there must be something—_

Suddenly, Reid froze.

"Did you hear that?" he asked Tobias, his voice sounding unsteady.

Tobias just stared at him.

Reid took a step towards the wall. "I feel dizzy," he muttered. "I need to sit down…"

_Stand up—keep going—the team—_

"I can't…" Reid whispered. "Tobias…did you hear footsteps?"

Tobias stared at him.

Reid pressed both hands against the back of the wall, slowly allowing himself to slide down. "I feel…_nauseous…" _he muttered. He pressed both hands against his face—everything seemed to be sinking downwards, falling, melting—he just wanted to sleep…

"So _you're _Dr. Reid, then."

Reid stiffened; the voice was not dull, like the ones of his hallucinations; but sharp and piercing. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the figure that stood less than a foot away.

"Looks like you were right, after all," Agent Booker said. He was smiling

**O**

Hotch paced back and forth rapidly, trying to ignore the agitation quelling up in his stomach.

"I have to admit, Hotch," Morgan muttered; they were both seated in the police office. "Reid really _has _done it this time. How the hell are we supposed to find him _twice? _I'd never thought someone so smart could be so…_illogical…"_

"Right," Hotch muttered, barely listening to Morgan.

"Well, they'll find him," Morgan said. "He'll be fine…he always is, after all…" He trailed off, staring bemusedly at Hotch. "Hey," he said, "Why aren't you telling me to forget about Reid and focus on the unsub?"

Hotch glanced at him. "You already know that," he muttered. He continued pacing; Morgan stared at him.

"Are you alright?" Morgan demanded. "You're sweating."

"Hm?" Hotch muttered. "I'm…I'm worried about Reid."

"You weren't acting like this when he went missing a day ago," Morgan commented.

"Right," Hotch muttered. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "Excuse me, Morgan," he muttered. He pushed past his colleague; who just stared at him in confusion; and walked outside. He took out his phone.

"Garcia?" he said hurriedly, as soon as she picked up.

"Yes, my good sir, you have reached the office of supreme genius—and all of that—what can I do for—?"

"I need you to get me everything you can about officer Lloyd Booker."

There was a confused pause from the other end of the phone. "Isn't that one of the police officers working with you?"

"Yes," Hotch muttered. "Well, he _was—_it doesn't matter. And can you just keep this between us, Garcia?"

"Your wish is my command, boss-man," Garcia replied cheerfully; but he could detect a hint of nervousness in her voice. "Is everything alright, Hotch?"

Hotch glanced back inside the building—Morgan was staring at him suspiciously. "I'm not sure, yet," he muttered eventually. He shut the phone and went inside to talk to Morgan.

**O**

"H-how do I know you're not a hallucination?" Reid whispered.

Booker laughed. "Do you _want _me to be a hallucination?" he asked. The strangest thing about the laugh was that it had a genuine feeling about it; almost to the point of seeming good-natured; as if the two of them were sharing some private sort of joke.

"I…I don't want you to kill me," Reid said, weakly.

Booker laughed again. "If I had wanted to kill you," he said, "Wouldn't I have done that already?"

Reid swallowed slowly. "Wh…what did you put in my coffee?" he asked eventually, his voice sounding hoarse.

Booker grinned. "A little of this, a little of that," he said skittishly, as if the pair of them were excellent friends that were sharing a practical joke together.

Reid stared at him.

"Alright," Booker said, grinning good-naturedly, "I'll tell you. But first, you have to tell _me _something."

Reid continued to stare at him. Finally, he nodded.

"How did you figure it out?" he asked. Although on the exterior he appeared calm; relaxed, even; Reid could see there was a desperate sort of intensity burning just beneath the surface. "How did you know? That it was _me, _I mean. Not just me who put all that _fun _stuff in your drink—me who did _all _of it. How did you _figure it out?"_

Reid blinked. "I remembered you standing near my coffee," he muttered. "In the park."

Booker paused for a moment, his mouth half-open—then he let out a delighted peal of laughter that rather frightened Reid. Reid considered running away, before he realized that he most likely wouldn't make it past the first step.

"So. That was _it, _then, was it?" Booker asked, his eyes wide. _"Well. _That's pretty _exciting—_don't you think so?"

"What…did you put…?" Reid trailed off. He wasn't sure why, but he was certain that he _had _to know the answer to this question, if nothing else.

Booker smiled at him. "Men like us," he said, "We're always obsessed with _answers._ Got to find the truth_—_the _truth, _if nothing else. We're not so different, you know—I don't know if you realize it, Dr. Reid, but we aren't so different at _all_."

Reid just stared at him blankly. Booker sighed.

"_Fine," _he said. "LSD. DMT. Some amphetamines, too, just for fun—been feeling overconfident, lately?" He smirked. "Apparently, the last gentleman that I killed was a bit of a _connoisseur …_when it comes to narcotic substances, that is."

Reid shook his head slowly. "Why did you do it?" he asked eventually, feeling more and more tired by the minute. "What was the point?"

"Well," Booker said, grinning impishly, "Because I'm the unsub_. Obviously_."

Reid just stared at him again.

"Oh, alright," Booker said, letting out a sigh. "It really was impulsive of me, I guess—I'm not _usually _so impulsive—but I had you all here—your whole team, I mean—and everything was set in place, and it was all so exciting, and…" he trailed off. "And I met you, and heard about your…your gifts, your _genius_…" He paused. "I heard about your mind—and I just wanted to _play _with it." His grin widened considerably. "I love games, you know," he said. "I hate being bored. So you've got to _understand, _Dr. Reid…this was a game I just couldn't resist."

Reid narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Have you been following me this whole time?" he asked incredulously.

"Just since you left your friends at the infirmary." Booker smirked. "I knew you'd leave eventually—come looking for me. How could I not know, after what you said at the park? It was the last thing I was expecting, of course—for you to figure it out. After all, I did everything perfectly—which is why they can't catch me—which is why no one ever _could _catch me, even when I was a kid drowning the class gerbils in the fish tank, or when I set my neighbor's house on fire because he broke my Nintendo, or when I poisoned my seventh grade science teacher and got other kids expelled from school, because no one ever thought, _no one ever suspected—" _he broke off; he seemed to have worked himself into a frenzy. He took a deep breath. "Except for _you," _he continued. "You and me—we're the kind of people who are _special."_

"That doesn't mean we can kill people," Reid said carefully, not wanting to make him angry. Tobias had not moved throughout the entire interaction; he was staring at Booker with wide eyes.

"I'm assuming you've read Nietzsche?" Booker inquired. "Ever heard of the _Übermensch—_the Nietzschean superman? The man that has no need to abide by the laws of society—because he makes his own laws—because he is better, smarter, more daring—like _us."_ Booker's eyes shined ferociously, boring into Reid's eyes.

"You don't have the right to kill people because you think you're smarter than them," Reid snapped, becoming angry. "Nobody does."

"But why not?" Booker sneered. "Who says? The law? Society? The _FBI?" _He laughed. "Most men would never have the courage to do what I've done—but I feel nothing when I kill. No fear—no hesitation—just calm. I _have _the ability. I _have _the daring—"

"That doesn't make you superman," Reid snapped, "It makes you a sociopath." Booker stiffened; behind him, Tobias was shaking his head back and forth rapidly.

"And what about you?" Booker asked eventually.

"What _about _me?" Reid snapped. "This has nothing to dowith me."

At this remark, Tobias got to his feet. "Don't make him angry," he said. "If you upset him, you'll only make this _worse."_

"You're like me," Booker said, regaining some of his confidence. "I knew it the moment I met you—and you would have turned out _just the same—_had you just been a little bit more bored growing up."

Reid rolled his eyes, refusing to answer. This just made Booker even more animated.

"Look at you now—look at the stupidity you have to deal with!" He let out a disbelieving laugh. "You shove the truth in their faces, and they shut you up in a hospital and call you a lunatic! The ignorance that you endure—the _imbeciles _that you tolerate—and all so you can convince yourself that you're a _decent _person, a _good _citizen—all so that you can convince yourself that you're _normal…"_

"You're wrong," Reid interjected angrily, no longer able to keep quiet. "I may not be normal, but I'm nothing like you." Tobias just stared at Booker fearfully; the two of them awaited his reaction.

Booker paused for a long moment; then, slowly, a smile spread across his face.

"Well," he said softly, "I guess we'll see about that."

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you think! :D**

**ALSO: For anyone who is curious—(if you are bored by rants about philosophy you should probably skip this part. I won't be offended, I promise—) The Nietzschean Superman is an archetypal literary character—the term was coined by Friedrich Nietzsche (hence the name) and it was supposedly a man who would challenge the preconceived societal notions of good vs. evil and rebel against the established system of morals. Even though the name comes from Nietzsche, the idea actually originated long before him, most notably from the Russian author Fyodor Dostoevsky, who wrote **_**Crime and Punishment. **_**For those of you who haven't read it before, it's essentially about a man named Raskolnikov who murders an old pawnbroker woman and steals her fortune, arguing that the money could save/improve hundreds of lives, but it was instead being wasted by this pawnbroker woman; so, therefore, it was more virtuous to kill the woman than to allow her to live and let her money go to waste. Raskolnikov often compared himself to Napoleon; he repeatedly states that he killed the woman to "see if he had the daring," aka, to see if he was one of the "great men that could challenge society" or just an ordinary man. Nietzsche actually confirmed that he was a big fan of Dostoevsky, so this is most likely where he got the idea from.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for reading and reviewing, and sorry I haven't updated in so long! Hopefully there will be more to come soon!**

"_Anyone can put paint on a canvas, but only a true master can bring the painting to life; anyone can kill, but only a true genius can make murder an art."-Shaun Jeffrey_

Reid couldn't remember how he'd gotten here.

_Tobias…?_ He wasn't sure if he said it out loud or not—but either way, there was no answer.

His eyes were closed. _Did I fall asleep?_ He wondered. It didn't feel like he had fallen asleep. There was no sense of grogginess or exhaustion—just a strange blankness, a quiet terror.

Reid opened his eyes. He saw nothing.

_Am I blind? _He thought desperately, panicking—but a small sense of relief washed over him when he began to see the faintest outlines of the corners of the wall coming hazily into view. He wasn't blind—it was just very, very dark.

The last thing he remembered was the alleyway—the unsub—_Lloyd Booker, _he thought suddenly, grasping at the glimmer of memory. _What happened after that? _Everything was blank.

"Tobias?" he knew he was speaking aloud now—but there was still no answer.

"Tobias!" he called again. "I know you're there. Or, if you aren't there, you are _here_. If I'm here, so you have to be here…but where are you?" he trailed off, letting his words fade away into the darkness. He knew that Tobias had, in a way, never been and yet still _was_—but he couldn't assuage the feeling of abandonment. He had never felt so alone.

Suddenly, Reid heard the sound of a door opening. He whipped his head around—this motion, coupled with the blinding light from the door, caused a sharp, burst of pain in his head. He let out a hiss of agony, clutching his head in his hands and turning away from the door.

"Rough night?" Booker's voice called to him. Reid moaned, pressing his hands over his ears. The sound of his voice was grating.

The door closed—a moment of silence passed, then the room was flooded with a dimmer, less painful source of light. Booker stood in front of him—the room appeared to be the size of two or three closets. It was completely empty, aside from a dingy, formerly-white carpet that covered the floor and several stairs leading up to the door.

"Is it…" Reid trailed off. "Did I fall asleep?" he asked sheepishly. His anger at Booker was being offset by his relief at being out of the dark.

Booker shrugged. "I'd more describe it as…_passing out," _he said. "You tried to get up. You were not successful."

"Oh," Reid muttered. He shook his head slightly, trying to reorient himself. "You know," he said eventually, "My team isn't stupid. If you just disappear, they're _going _to figure it out eventually."

"Not if I take myself off the case because of your…_offensive _accusations," Booker said, giving Reid a look of mock-indignation.

"They'll figure it out eventually," Reid said, gritting his teeth. "You've gotten off on outwitting the local police—the FBI is a little bit harder to fool."

"Well, of course," Booker said, rolling his eyes. "Why _else _would I done any of this? I was _bored. _I _hate _being bored."

"You know," Reid said sarcastically, "There are other outlets for boredom. Tennis, for example. Golfing. Chess. Painting. Take up an instrument."

Booker laughed loudly for several moments. "You're hilarious, Spencer," he said. "That _is _your name, isn't it? I think we should be on first name basis by this point, seeing as I'm holding you hostage and everything."

"Sure," Reid said, rolling his eyes. "This makes us great friends."

Booker laughed. "Maybe not," he said. "But I don't see why you'd rather be friends with those..." he trailed off, making a face of disdain. "With _those _people, instead of someone _interesting, _like me."

Reid blinked at him. "You're evil," he said.

"But what _is _evil?" Booker asked. "People who break rules? Who break the law? By that definition, maybe I'm evil. Or is it maybe the average—the traditional—the conventional—the human being who is nothing but a puppet for the ambitions of the government—who exists to achieve the propagation of the old, the un-miraculous, the inane and the useless—the society who rewards the obedient and the cowardly and but punishes the courageous and the genius…" he trailed off, his eyes glittering.

"Society punishes murderers," Reid said, maintaining Booker's gaze although his head was killing him.

"Murderers of _what?_" Booker demanded. "Useless replicas—boring, worthless _louses—_unable to see further than the tips of their white-picket fences—"

"Of human beings," Reid said slowly. "People abide by the laws of the government because the laws of the government are, for the most part, _rational._"

"Laws are nothing more than the society they create," Booker snapped. "Look at _society—_how people think, what they appreciate—athletes and entertainers are at the front of their attention, but people who are curing cancer are ignored. Is _that _rational?"

Reid laughed. "You don't care that society is messed up," he said. "If you _actually _cared, you would be trying to fix it. You're a bored sociopath who wanted to prove he was smarter than the FBI—and now you're trying to manipulate _me_."

Booker paused for a moment. Then, he laughed. "Well," he said, "It doesn't _matter _what my motivation is. You're _going_ to help me get rid of your team."

"No," Reid said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not."

"Of course," Booker said, continuing as if he hadn't spoken, "I don't really _need _your help. If I _wanted _to kill them, I would have already done that. But it's more for the principal of the thing." He grinned. "I'm going to blow up their plane."

Reid rolled his eyes again. "Do you have any idea how much security—"

"Exactly," Booker said. "Which is where _you_ come in."

Reid sighed. "For the twelfth time," he said, "I am _not _going to help you."

Booker was silent for a moment. Then, he smiled.

"Your life is worth more than your teammates lives," he said. Reid opened his mouth to protest, but Booker interrupted. "Logically, I mean—the rarity of your intelligence is one in a million. Which is why you'regoing to help me. Because if you _don't—" _He paused for another long moment, then grinned. "If you don't, I'm going to kill you."

Reid held his stare. "It doesn't matter how smart I am," he said. "My life is worth no more than anyone's—and it's _especially _not worth more than the lives of my entire team. I'm _not _going to help you."

Instead of looking angry, Booker's expression just became more amused. "Well," he said, smiling cockily, "I'll just have to make you change your mind."


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry for the long wait—thanks for reading and reviewing! Enjoy the chapter!**

"_You know, a long time ago, being crazy _meant _something. Nowadays, everyone's crazy."-Charles Manson_

"I don't care what you do to me," Reid said. "I'm not going to help you."

Booker grinned. "Come on," he said, "Don't be like that. We could have such _fun _together, if you'd only loosen up a little bit."

Reid gritted his teeth. "I'm not a psychopath," he said. "I _am _capable of caring for someone besides myself. You can't convince me that my life is worth more than my team's—because it isn't. And nothing you say or do is going to make me change my mind."

Booker let out a long sigh. "I have to admit," he said, "this has been a tremendous disappointment. I expected you to me a _bit _more interesting." He glanced hopefully up at Reid—but Reid met his gaze with hard eyes. Eventually, Booker shrugged. "Well," he said, "I guess I have no use for you, then."

With that, he took out a gun and pointed it straight at Reid's head.

**O**

Hotch couldn't sleep.

_No, Hotch, Lloyd Booker has no criminal record. He was accused of poisoning a teacher when he was in high school, but it turned out to be two other kids._

Hotch rolled over. He squeezed his eyes shut.

_I'm sorry, Agent Hotchner. There has been no trace of Agent Reid since his disappearance for the hospital._

Hotch rolled over again and got to his feet—he walked into the other room, Rossi was asleep on the pull out bed. He hesitated for a moment before reaching down and shaking the other man awake.

Rossi let out a moan. When he saw who had awoken him, he grunted angrily and turned his head away from Hotch. "Jesus Christ, Aaron," Rossi muttered, "I give you the nice, comfy hotel bed—I have to sleep on the couch—and you _still _have the nerve to wake me up in the middle of the night."

Aaron said nothing, sitting down in the chair opposite the bed. His silence apparently worried his older colleague, because it gave him the motivation to sit up completely in bed and give Hotch a closer look.

"Have you slept at all?" Rossi asked.

Hotch shook his head.

"Look, Aaron," Rossi said, "You're not going to get any closer to solving this if you're sleep-deprived. So you want some sleeping pills? I've got some in my bag." When Hotch didn't answer, Rossi kept talking. "Seriously, Aaron, this isn't going to—"

"I think the unsub's got Reid."

Rossi just stared at him, his mouth slightly open, as if he was pretty sure he had heard him wrong. "What?"

"I think Reid was right about the unsub," Hotch muttered. "Lloyd Booker hasn't been seen since he left—"

"Because he was accused of murder," Rossi said, raising his eyebrows.

"He took two vacation days on the same days the murders up north were committed—"

"It was Columbus Day Weekend," Rossi said, "I'm sure the same could be said for half of the officers."

"He was accused on poisoning his teacher," Hotch said.

"But he wasn't convicted," Rossi finished the sentence for him, "Otherwise he wouldn't be a police officer."

"Classic psychopathic behavior," Hotch said, "Manipulation, lack of remorse—this unsub is targeting the FBI—it would make sense if he had inside knowledge about law enforcement—_and _it's the only way he could have known our locations the day he attacked us." Rossi didn't answer, so Hotch kept talking. "It fits the profile—he's stuck working as an everyday police officer, so his narcissism prompts him to try and prove that he's smarter than the _best _law enforcement officers in the country—he can outwit the FBI, right under their noses—his fingerprint was found on the body—honestly, Rossi, I think the only reason we _didn't_ see it sooner was because we were all so sure that Reid couldn't possibly be _right_."

Rossi's eyes travelled downwards, away from Hotch's face—he appeared to be deep in thought.

"The unsub saw Reid as the greatest threat," Hotch said. "That's why he poisoned him. There's no way the LSD could still be affecting him now, more than two days after the fact—the only reason he wouldn't have returned again to try and convince us is that he _can't _return."

Rossi returned Hotch's gaze for several seconds. Finally, he sighed.

"We should call the team."

**O**

Reid stared at the barrel of the gun, unflinching. "You're not going to kill me," he said. "You wouldn't have gone through all of that just to kill me at the end of it. You _need _my help. And I _am _interesting."

Booker's look of seriousness was replaced with a small smile. "You're smart," he admitted. "And you're right. I'm _not _going to kill you—that would be terribly boring of me." Reid let out a small sigh of relief.

"However," Booker continued, still smiling. "I didn't bring this gun just for show." With that, he turned the gun downwards and fired a shot straight into Reid's leg.

**O**

"This is all impossible," Morgan muttered. "We're going to believe that a _police _officer is a serial killer because of Reid's acid trip?"

"No," Hotch snapped, growing increasingly irritated. "We're going to believe it because of the _evidence_ Reid put together that allowed him to _conclude _that Booker was the unsub, _despite_ being on an acid trip."

"But there _is _no evidence—"

"There's _never_ any evidence!" Hotch snapped. "He fit the profile! That's all that matters!"

"Hotch," JJ said, from the other side of the room, "You're shouting."

"Don't you two believe me?" Hotch snapped. Morgan and JJ just stared at him wearily. "Dave believes me," he said exasperatedly, turning to Rossi.

"It's the best guess we've got right now," Rossi said, looking directly at Morgan and JJ. "At any rate, we should ask the chief of police call him in so that we can interrogate him. That's what we'd do for any other suspect."

Morgan let out a half sarcastic laugh. "You want us to accuse an officer of murder, _again?_" he asked in disbelief. "They'll force us off the case."

Hotch frowned, looking around at his team.

"Then we won't asked the police chief to call him in," he decided eventually. "We'll find Booker ourselves—better to catch him off guard, before he kills Reid—or us—and decides to skip town. Booker is young—but he's got to be ridiculously smart to have been able to pull this off. We can't risk giving him any advantage—because if we do, we're going to lose."

**O**

White, hot, blinding pain—Reid's breath came in sharp, painful gasps as he clutched at the leg. He could feel his blood soaking through his clothes, forming a pool and spreading alarmingly quickly across the floor.

"If you just hit…" Reid let out a sharp gasp at the jolt of pain that seared through his leg. "If you just hit…my femoral artery…I _am _dead…" he hissed.

Booker looked offended. "Well, there's no need to be so goddamn critical," he said, "I'm not a _doctor, _you know." He flashed Reid a mocking smile. "Ready to help yet?"

"_No," _Reid snapped. "I'm not helping you—you goddamn insane lunatic—"

Booker fired another shot—Reid felt his whole body tense up in preparation—but Booker appeared to have missed him intentionally.

"Whoops," he said. "I've got to be more careful with this thing. I can never remember if that button means _shoot, _or open…" He shrugged. "Well, anyways. Ready to help?"

"I _can't _help you now," Reid snapped, "I'm in too much goddamn _pain_."

Booker smiled. "How about the security code?" he asked. "Just eight quick numbers. I _know _you remember them. I'll drop you off at the hospital and everything. No big deal."

"I don't believe you," Reid hissed, "And I'm not telling you _anything._"

The lightheartedness slowly disappeared from Booker's face—and, for the first time ever, he looked truly angry. "You really don't care what happens to you?" he asked, in a soft and dangerous voice. "You are _actually _willing to risk _your _life for the sake of….of _them?!"_

Reid shrunk back into the wall—he had begun to feel lightheaded. "Listen," he whispered, "Killing me isn't going to help you achieve your goal. Just let me go. _Please._"

But Booker was shaking his head—his eyes were steely and full of anger. "You've made the wrong choice," he said, his eyes dark and dangerous. "And now you have to pay the price."


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey everyone! So I will probably keep updating every Saturday now, because it seems like I have more time to write (and everyone else probably has more time to read.) Anyways, thanks a ton to anyone who reviewed, and enjoy the chapter!**

"_I love you enough to die for you. But I couldn't, and wouldn't, live for you." – Ayn Rand_

"_Stop!" _ Reid couldn't suppress the scream of pain that escaped his lips as Booker grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the floor, leaving a long trail of blood behind him. "My leg is bleeding too much," he gasped at Booker. "You have to stop the bleeding—you're going to kill me—_please_—"

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Booker snarled. He released Reid's arm and stood towering over him. Reid protected his head with his arms, trying not to scream through the agonizing jolts of pain.

"I don't want to die," Reid gasped. "You could…you could just take me to the h-hospital…I wouldn't t-tell anyone, I p-promise…no one would _believe _me if I t-told them, anyways, so it wouldn't even—"

Reid broke off with another gasp of pain as Booker's foot collided with his stomach. Then again. And again. And _again. _He tried to open his mouth to beg him to stop—but he couldn't find the breath. He tried once more to raise his head—but it was too much. Everything became very blurry for several seconds, before abruptly going to black—the last thing he remembered was the feeling of the cold floor against his cheek before he slipped into unconsciousness.

**O**

"What do you mean, you found nothing?" Hotch snapped at JJ.

"There's nothing out of the ordinary in his apartment," JJ said, shrugging. "The most incriminating thing I could find was that he hadn't done his laundry in about two weeks." JJ wrinkled her nose—Hotch did not laugh. She sighed. _"Seriously, _Hotch, the guy's normal. He's got pictures of his baby niece on the mantelpiece—a _Beatles _poster on the wall—"

"So," Hotch snapped, "Because you didn't find a refrigerator filled with human heads, you figured he must be innocent?"

"I'm just _saying, _Hotch," JJ said carefully, "Nothing I found fits the profile for a psychopath. Psychopaths isolate themselves from their friends and family—change jobs frequently—this guy's had the same job for five years, and he seems to have plenty of friends, a good relationship with his sister—"

"Psychopaths are also master manipulators," Hotch snapped. "If he _knew _that the police would be looking for a psychopath, don't you think it _might _make sense for him to deck out his apartment to make it look like he's _not_?"

JJ crossed her arms angrily. "Look, Hotch," she said. "You told me to search his apartment. I did. I'm just telling you what I found."

Hotch let out a sigh and sat down on the nearest bench. "I know," he muttered. "But this must mean that there's some other place that he's keeping Reid."

"_If _he's keeping Reid," JJ muttered. Hotch gave her a dark glare.

"I'm sorry, Hotch," JJ said. "I'd like to think as much as you do that we know who the unsub is, and that by finding him, we can find Reid—but sometimes it's not as simple as that."

Hotch got to his feet. "It's never simple," he muttered. "But that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

**O**

Reid was back at the crime scene.

Nobody else was there. He approached the body, frowning—perhaps there was something his team had missed. But there was something wrong—it didn't look like original victim, but they were facing downwards, so he couldn't see their face. He reached out and turned the body over.

The face was his.

Instead of being frightened, Reid was strangely transfixed. His eyes travelled up and down the body—_his _body—strangely enough, there was no bullet wound in his leg. Instead, it was in his head.

"Don't you realize what you're giving up?"

Reid turned around—Tobias was back, standing several feet away.

"Thank you," Reid said.

Tobias laughed. "For what?"

"For coming back," Reid said.

"You know that I was never gone," Tobias replied.

Reid blinked. He didn't answer. "Am I dying?" he asked, instead.

"Everyone's dying," Tobias answered.

Reid turned to look at the body, fear gripping him suddenly. "I don't want to die," he said.

"Nobody wants to die," said Tobias.

"I'm not ready."

"Nobody's ready."

Reid sighed, then back to look at Tobias. "I'd forgotten how unhelpful you can be sometimes," he muttered.

Tobias laughed again. He was right next to Reid now. "I can only tell you things you already know," he reminded him.

"Did I make the wrong choice?" Reid asked.

Tobias smiled. "If it was the wrong choice," he said, "You wouldn't have made it."

**O**

Hotch stared solidly into the eyes of the sheriff—the man was staring at him with his mouth halfway open.

"What did you say?" the sheriff asked eventually, once he had regained his voice.

"Officer Booker is the unsub," Hotch said, calmly. "We tried to investigate the matter ourselves, for fear of upsetting your unit—but now we need your help. We have to find him."

The sheriff just stared at him. "You're out of your goddamned mind," he snapped eventually, "Lloyd Booker is one of my best officers."

"Have you spoken with Officer Booker since he took himself off the case?" Hotch asked.

"I…" the sheriff trailed off. "This is preposterous," he sputtered eventually. "I'll call him down right now. Get this whole thing sorted out. He just—hey!"

Hotch had reached across the desk to prevent the sheriff from dialing the number. "If he knows he's a suspect," he said, "He'll kill Dr. Reid and disappear. We need to feign ignorance and apprehend him while we still have the chance."

The sheriff stared at him. "You, sir," he snapped eventually, "Can get the hell out of my office. And take your team with you."

"Listen," Hotch said, carefully. "If Booker _isn't _the unsub, we can assure you that no harm will befall him. We just can't risk the chance of him escaping."

"He _isn't _the…" the sheriff trailed off. "Officer Booker is the one who brought these murders to my attention!" he snapped. "He's the one who _suggested _we call the FBI! You've all lost your goddamn minds!"

"Think about it, sheriff," Hotch said carefully. "A psychopathic unsub with a _narcissistic personality disorder_—who wanted to prove that he could outsmart the FBI—who made _us _the target the moment we arrived here—it fits the profile exactly."

"You can all take your profile and go to hell!" the sheriff snapped.

"With all due respect, sheriff," Hotch said, "We _are _profilers."

The sheriff seemed to realize that he was making a fool of himself—he took a deep breath, and sat down. "Look," he said, "I'm sure you're all excellent at what you do. But this, right now…" he trailed off. "You're wrong," he said. "I've known Lloyd since he was a boy. I was friends with his daddy—Lloyd's parents passed away when he was only twelve or thirteen. He was raised by his grandparents. Horrible accident. The kid's had a hard time—the whole family has—this is _not _what they need. He's a _good _kid."

"How did his parents die?" Hotch asked.

The sheriff narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I can't tell what you're thinking," he snapped. "I know that you've seen so many scumbags in your line of work that you can't help but look at everyone that way—but I _know _Lloyd, and—"

"Officer," Hotch interrupted. "If we _are _wrong, it's in everyone's best interest that you answer my questions truthfully so that we can find out who the _real _criminal is."

The sheriff sighed. "Well, the sooner we can get on with this, the better, I suppose," he muttered. "Carbon monoxide poisoning. Kids were at school—Lloyd's sister noticed that they weren't home, and she's the one who found them."

"They weren't home?" Hotch prompted suddenly. "Where were they poisoned?"

The sheriff shrugged. "There was a little cabin where Lloyd's daddy used to take his family camping in the summer—it was June, and I guess Lloyd's parents had the day off, and decided to spend the night there. The gas stove malfunctioned—they were both dead in the living room." He let out a long sigh. "Terrible story," he muttered. "The whole family's been in the town for generations. His sister still lives—"

"What's the address of the cabin?" Hotch demanded.

The sheriff blinked. "What?" he demanded. "Why?"

"Tell me the address," Hotch repeated.

"Why, it's just a half-mile or so into the woods, off of Cedar—not too far from their old house—but it's deserted now, nobody uses it anymore, it might have even been destroyed…" the sheriff trailed off in bewilderment as Hotch got to his feet and left the room. He approached his team, who were all sitting around a table in a conference room.

Hotch poked his head into the room. He knew that he had no proof that he was right—yet, somehow, he _knew _that he was.

It all fit.

"I know where the Booker is," he said, "And I know where Reid is, too."

They all stared at him for a split second, motionless. Then, without speaking, they all got the their feet and followed him out of the room. Hotch turned around to lead them to the car—but he felt Rossi put a hand on his shoulder.

"What?" Hotch demanded, turning. He knew they didn't have a lot of time.

"Are you sure about this, Aaron?" Rossi asked.

Hotch gritted his teeth. "Yes," he said eventually, sighing. "I've got no other choice." He glanced at Rossi. "It all _fits, _Dave."

Rossi patted him on the shoulder. He nodded once, and the two of them hurried after their team. "I trust you, Hotch," he said, as they were walking. "I just hope we're not too late."


	10. Chapter 10

**Happy Saturday, and thanks a billion times to anyone who reviewed! Enjoy the chapter!**

"_Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim." –Bertrand Russell_

"Step back!" Hotch took a step to the side as Morgan's foot came into contact with the door—seconds later, the two of them entered the room with their guns raised, adrenaline pumping—

It was empty.

"Clear," Hotch muttered, bewildered.

Morgan sighed. "I don't know what to tell you, Hotch," he said. "That was the last room. I don't think anyone's been here in years."

Hotch ran his hand through his hair—he shook his head. "No," he muttered. "It doesn't make any sense."

"We were wrong, Hotch," Morgan said. "It's not the cabin. Hell, we still aren't sure if Booker is even the _un_sub..."

Hotch stared despondently around him. "But…this would be the only place," he muttered. "He couldn't take him back to the house…it all made sense…"

"Sometimes it doesn't make sense, Hotch," Morgan said. "Come on. Let's go back."

Hotch shook his head once again. "No," he muttered suddenly. "Just because we don't know the answer…doesn't mean it doesn't make sense…"

Morgan sighed. "Alright, Hotch," he said, "But this cabin is abandoned. Let's go out to the—Hotch? Where are you going?"

Hotch didn't respond. He was already running out the door—he turned and ran around into the backyard. He surveyed the grounds expectantly—Morgan emerged several seconds later.

"There's no shed," Hotch said, before Morgan had a chance to speak.

"I know, Hotch," Morgan said, "If there _were_, we would have checked it."

Hotch shook his head. "It's a cabin in the middle of the woods," he muttered. "There's a river less than a hundred yards away from the house. They would have needed a shed to keeping fishing equipment in. Or…" he trailed off, running his hands through his hair. _"Something. _Somewhere to keep all of the maintenance equipment—the sheriff said the house was modernized. Everything they needed wouldn't have fit inside the cabin. There's no garage."

"Hotch," Morgan said, "What the hell are you talking about? Maybe it would have been a better idea for the Bookers to have built a shed, but the thing is, they _didn't, _so I really don't think…"

Something caught Hotch's eye. He smiled. "I know," he said, "But that means they must have kept it somewhere else." Hotch started walking across the yard.

Morgan sighed. "You're grasping at straws here, Hotch," he said, "Maybe they didn't like fishing. Maybe they kept their lawnmower outside their house. Just because you _want _there to be a—Hotch, where the _hell _are you going?"

"Shut up," Hotch snapped. He was already on the other side of the house. "Look," he said triumphantly. "It's a bulkhead."

"A what?" Morgan snapped. He had not moved.

"Get over here!" Hotch called. "One of those slanted doors that conceal the stairwells to basements. We didn't see it, because it was on the other side of the house…"

Morgan jogged over. "We can check it out," he said, "But that thing looks like it hasn't been opened in years…"

"That's what he _wants _us to think," Hotch said. "Look at the grass."

"The _grass_…?"

"Indentations," Hotch said. "It hasn't been mowed in years, so you can see where someone has stepped—"

"Could be an animal," Morgan suggested.

"Yes," Hotch said, "_Or, _we could open this up and find out before he kills Reid." With these words, Hotch bent down and yanked desperately at the doors—they were locked, but the wood was so rotted that he pulled the door off its hinges with ease.

"Hotch," Morgan said. "There's a small chance that you're right. But Booker's parents both died of carbon monoxide poisoning—do we really want to go into their concealed, underground basement?"

"That was years ago," Hotch snapped.

"The rest of the team's checking the rest of the area," Morgan continued, "We'll wait for them to come back."

Hotch shook his head slowly. "I have this feeling," he said, "That we don't have enough time." He sighed. "We _never _have enough time," he muttered grimly. Finally, he turned to Morgan. "I'll go in by myself," he said, "Just to clear it."

"But, Hotch—"

"Get out of the way, Morgan," Hotch snapped, sharply. "I'm your superior. You have to listen to me."

Reluctantly, Morgan stepped out of the way—however, to Hotch's surprise, he had barely stepped onto the first stair when he heard his colleague climbing in behind him.

"What are you doing?" Hotch hissed.

"I trust you, Hotch," Morgan said, "And if _you _think Reid and the unsub are in there…" he trailed off. "I'm not letting you go in alone," he whispered. "We go in together."

Hotch held his eyes for a moment. Finally, he nodded, then directed the light on his gun down the staircase. Everything was deathly silent. The stairs in front of them spiraled downwards and then turned a corner. Hotch took two more steps, trying to keep as silent as possible—then he rounded the corner and held his gun up.

"Lloyd Booker, this is the FBI!" he shouted. There was no response.

"Hotch." It was Morgan who spoke—his friend was pointing his light in the far corner of the room, where there was a figure lying with his face to the wall.

"Reid!" Morgan moved before Hotch could—he was already turning the figure over when Hotch suddenly felt his foot stick to the floor. He froze, and shined his flashlight at the ground.

It was covered in blood.

"Call the medics!" Morgan shouted, rather unnecessarily. Hotch did it robotically—after that, he just stared. He couldn't fathom somebody losing that much blood and remaining alive.

"I was too late," Hotch muttered, more to himself than to Morgan. "I was right, and it didn't matter."

"Hotch," Morgan interrupted. "He's got a pulse."

Immediately, Hotch bent down next to Reid and felt his wrist. It was ice cold—but there was no denying the faint, but steady beat of a pulse. Suddenly, Reid let out a moan.

"Reid?" Morgan demanded, "Can you hear me?"

Reid didn't open his eyes. "Go away, Tobias," he muttered, "I made the wrong choice."

"Reid, it's Hotch and Morgan," Hotch said. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine."

"Seven, two, eight, zero…" Reid began, then stopped. "Did I make the wrong choice?" he mumbled, still keeping his eyes closed. "He's gone. There are rabbits everywhere." Then his head slumped to the side and he fell silent.

"Reid?" Hotch demanded. He reached for his wrist again—if there was still a pulse, it was too weak for him to feel it. He felt nothing. _"Reid?"_

There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs as the paramedics came rushing down. Hotch hastily got to his feet and moved out of the way. Morgan followed a second later, but was unable to take his eyes off of Reid.

"God," he muttered, so softly that Hotch could barely hear him, "He was _right._"

"Is he going to be okay?" Hotch demanded of the paramedics as they lifted Reid onto a stretcher.

"Please move out of the way, sir," the paramedic said, as the small group hurried by towards the stairs.

Hotch's eyes followed the group—suddenly, however, he saw something white out of the corner of his eye. He frowned as he approached it—it was a piece of paper that had been thumb-tacked to the wall.

"Morgan," Hotch said, "Look at this."

Morgan—who had evidently been about to follow Reid up the stairs—turned around, irritated. "What?" he demanded off Hotch.

"There's a note here," Hotch said.

"Reid is dying, and all you care about is a piece of paper?" Morgan snapped. He turned around again.

"It's a message," Hotch muttered, "And it's for us."

Morgan stopped short—he frowned slightly. "What does it say?" he asked, after a moment.

Hotch adjusted his flashlight, narrowing his eyes to better make out the words. The handwriting was so terrible that it was difficult to see. Finally, after a moment or two of silence, Hotch began to read.

_Dear BAU,_

_I'll admit that I wasn't being fair to you before. After all, how are you supposed to win a game if you don't know who your opponent is? If you don't even know you're _playing? _That's not a very fair game, is it?_

_I knew you'd find Spencer in time to save him—if you didn't, you wouldn't be worth playing with, anyways. Did you _really _expect me to kill the most interesting player in the game?_

_You might have thought the game was over, but the real fun is just starting. I look forward to playing with you—may the best man win!_

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Officer Lloyd Booker_


	11. Chapter 11

**Happy Saturday! If you left a review, I just hope you realize that you're super incredibly cool. That's all.**

"_I doubt if a single individual could be found from the whole of mankind free from some sort of insanity. The only difference is of degree. A man who sees a gourd and takes it for his wife is called insane because this happens to very few people."-Desiderius Erasmus_

Reid was feeling _good._

He didn't fully understand this, himself. He wasn't sure exactly _where _he was, or _why _he was feeling good, or whether he was alive or dead—he was mostly just aware of soft, murmuring voices, and a feeling of placid contentment that spread throughout his body.

_Maybe I'm dying, _he mused to himself. It all seemed to be coming back to him—he _must _be dying. He was bleeding to death. Right? Slowly, he opened his eyes—he saw the dark outline of a figure. He expected to see Booker—or maybe Tobias—but as the shadowy figure came more and more into focus, he realized it looked nothing like either of them. The figure was much too small.

It was Henry.

"Strawberry lemonade?" Henry was crouched down beside Reid's bed, his face inches from Reid's. Reid blinked.

Reid stared at him for a moment. "Are you real?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse.

"Yes," Henry said, seeming very sure of this. "Strawberry lemonade?" he prompted again.

Reid just shook his head, incredibly confused.

"You're supposed to drink strawberry lemonade when you're sick," Henry informed him. "It's sour and sweet."

"What?" Reid mumbled, barely coherent, "Why?"

"Reid!" Reid craned his neck towards the doorway—he saw JJ and Hotch hurrying into the room. "You're awake!" JJ gasped. "Henry—stop bothering him! He's very sick. You weren't supposed to wake up for another hour," she explained to Reid, pulling Henry away.

"No…it's alright," Reid muttered. "He's fine." He glanced at the hospital room around him—_morphine, _he thought suddenly. That would explain why he felt so good. He decided that he probably _wasn't _hallucinating, but he couldn't be completely sure. Everything still felt like a dream. "Where's Booker?" he asked.

Hotch sat down in a chair opposite the bed. "We don't know," he said grimly.

"What _happened_?" Reid demanded.

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "Why don't _you _tell _us?_" he asked. JJ began to lead a reluctant Henry out of the room.

"He needs _strawberry lemonade,_" Henry insisted to JJ, rather forcefully. She just shook her head and pulled him through the door.

Reid pushed himself up straighter. "I…" he trailed off. "How did you find me?" he asked Hotch.

Hotch sighed. "We eventually realized that Lloyd Booker fit the profile," he said. "The fact that he disappeared the moment you accused him also clued us in, but…" he trailed off. "We learned from the sheriff that his parents used to own a cabin in the woods."

"And that's where I was?" Reid mumbled. "Huh…"

"You didn't know?" Hotch asked.

"I don't…" Reid trailed off, then shook his head. "I don't remember," he said. "I don't remember what's real and what isn't."

"The unsub was real," Hotch said. He smiled gravely at Reid. "I'm sorry we didn't believe you."

"Me, too," Reid muttered. "Although I can see why you didn't." He sighed. "I'm just glad you figured it out _eventually, _or…" he trailed off. Then he shook his head. "Well," he said, "We caught him, right? At least it's over." Reid sunk back into his bed, letting out a sigh of relief that seemed to encapsulate his whole body. It was _over._

Hotch looked rather uncomfortable. "Well," he muttered, "Not exactly. We didn't catch him."

Reid stared at him. "What?" he asked.

"He was gone by the time we got there," Hotch said. "You were alone. And we found _this…_" he reached into his pocket and pulled what looked like the photocopy of a note. "The real copy is being processed," he said, handing it to Reid.

Reid narrowed his eyes, struggling to make out the scribbled words.

_Dear BAU,_

_I'll admit that I wasn't being fair to you before. After all, how are you supposed to win a game if you don't know who your opponent is? If you don't even know you're_playing? _That's not a very fair game, is it?_

_I knew you'd find Spencer in time to save him—if you didn't, you wouldn't be worth playing with, anyways. Did you_really _expect me to kill the most interesting player in the game?_

_You might have thought the game was over, but the real fun is just starting. I look forward to playing with you—may the best man win!_

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Officer Lloyd Booker_

Reid was silent for a long moment, rage mounting in his chest. "Well, fuck," Reid muttered. He glanced up instinctively—once he had ascertained that Henry, _was, _indeed, out of earshot, he spoke again. _"Fuck,_" he snapped. He was seized by the desire to rip the note up and throw it onto the floor. "It's all a game to him," he snapped. "He _wanted _me to choose the way I did. He _wanted _me to go after him. He _wanted _me to survive…" Reid trailed off. "I played right into his hands," he muttered. "We _all_ did."

"Don't worry," Hotch said, calmly. "He'll get caught eventually."

"Yeah," Reid said sarcastically. "We're really holding our own. This guy obviously can't outsmart us."

"He _can't,_" Hotch said, firmly. "Because we're not going to play his game."

Reid stared at him. "You're right," he said, "Let's just let a psychopath run around killing people. We don't need to stoop to his level."

"You seem much more sarcastic than usual," Hotch remarked, mildly.

"I've had a difficult couple of days," Reid snapped.

"Listen," Hotch said. "He _wants _us to get ourselves killed chasing him around the country. We're not going to. We can get a different unit to take the case. I'm not putting the team at risk."

Reid sat up even straighter. "Then I want to work with them," he said.

"No," Hotch said.

"_I _understand him," Reid snapped. "I can help catch him. Before he kills anyone else."

"No," Hotch said, "You can submit a witness account, but—"

"If we don't play his game," Reid said, "It's going to make everything worse. He'll go berserk. It's all personal for him. It's all about outsmarting us—outsmarting _me_."

"_No,"_ Hotch snapped. "_You _are not getting any more involved with this case, and neither is the rest of the team. He wants to kill us, Reid."

"And he _will, _unless we catch him!" Reid shouted.

Hotch shook his head. "I haven't forgotten what happened to Elle. What happened with the _Reaper._" He shot Reid a dark look—Reid looked away, gritting his teeth. "We're not making this personal," Hotch continued, "We're not going to engage him. Strauss offered to transfer the case to another team, and I accepted."

"But—"

"You're tired," Hotch said, getting to his feet. "Go back to sleep. I'll tell the rest of the team you're awake, and they can come and see you later." He started to leave, then turned around. "Oh," he said, "And you'll be on crutches for three weeks. The bullet didn't cause any lasting damage—it didn't hit any major veins or arteries, or you would have bled to death. You were lucky."

"I wasn't _lucky!_" Reid shouted. "He shot me there on _purpose!_"

Hotch shook his head and walked out. Reid let out a moan, then allowed his head to fall back to his pillow. As angry as he was, he didn't really have the option of following Hotch to continue the argument.

"This is _not _going to end well."

Reid froze—he whipped his head around to the corner of the room, where the voice had come from.

"Down _here, _you moron." Reid's eyes were drawn to the floor. "I had to stay out of sight," said Tobias Hankel, who was lying with his arms behind his head inches away from Reid's bed. "I didn't want to distract you while you were talking to your boss."

"You," Reid hissed, "Are _not _supposed to be here."

"You're on morphine," Tobias said, "That's an excuse, right?"

"Not enough to make me hallucinate," Reid whispered. He glanced out the door—nobody appeared to be outside.

"Fine, then, you're crazy," Tobias said. He got to his feet. "Does that make you feel better?"

"Go away," Reid hissed. "I'm obviously not crazy."

"_Obviously," _Tobias said. "So who cares _why _I'm here? You were plenty happy to see me before."

Reid closed his eyes. "I'm going back to sleep," he said.

"You _want _me to be here," Tobias said. His voice was right beside Reid's ear, now—Reid opened his eyes and saw him crouching inches from his face.

"Go away," Reid snapped.

"Maybe I'm here because you still need me," Tobias said. "_I _know it. _You _know it."

"Hallucinations aren't voluntary," Reid snapped.

"You've had some recent brain trauma," Tobias said, shrugging. "You're always so obsessed with _why _things are happening. Why not just use me while I'm here?"

"Because it's…" Reid trailed off. "Because it's _insane!"_

Tobias snorted. "Your boss is making a decision that's going to get a bunch of innocent people murdered," he said, "And _I'm_ the insane one?"

"No," Reid said, "_I _am. _You _aren't real."

"We're one in the same," Tobias said. "I helped you last time—didn't I?"

Reid didn't answer.

"Maybe I'm here because you need an ally in all of this," Tobias said. "You were right before. You're right again."

Reid closed his eyes, trying to block out Tobias's voice. It was silent for awhile, and Reid thought he might even be able to fall asleep.

"He's going to kill them," Tobias said, suddenly—but his voice was not confident, not self-assured, as it had been earlier. Instead, it was filled with horror—as if the truth had just appeared to him in a way that was undeniable, unalterable, and unavoidable.

Reid shuddered inwardly, but refused to open his eyes—his lids had become heavy again. He eventually began to drift off to sleep, but it was not the peaceful sleep he had been enjoying earlier—instead, Tobias' words echoed over and over in his mind. When he finally managed to dispel them, his memory began to chant the words from Booker's note to him—Reid instantly wished that he'd never read it.

_I look forward to playing with you—may the best man win!_

"He won't," Reid muttered aloud, not entirely sure whether he was awake or asleep by this point. He was barely aware that he was speaking—but nevertheless, he couldn't stop the words from coming out. "He never does."

Seconds later, he was asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! YOU'RE ALL AWESOME!**

"_People go crazy, not because they're crazy, but because it's the best available option at the time."-Gabrielle Zevin_

"Garcia, for the last time, I don'twant any more ice cream. And I don'tneed a wheelchair. This is ridiculous." Reid was sitting in an elevator with his arms folded, Morgan and Garcia on either side of him.

Tobias Hankel was leaning against the wall, inches from where Morgan was standing. Reid was trying very hard not to look at either of them. "Stop lying to yourself," Tobias said, "You _know_ youwant ice cream." Reid ignored him.

"You got shot, Reid," Morgan reminded him. "You _do _need a wheelchair."

"I don't like it," Reid mumbled. "It allows people to take me places against my will."

"And you _definitely _need ice cream," Garcia asserted, completely ignoring his protests. "You've been in a grouchy mood all morning."

"Yes," Reid said. "Who cares that a serial killer is trying to murder us? Ice cream will fix everything."

"That's the spirit!" Garcia said cheerfully, reaching down to ruffle his hair. Reid ducked away from her. "It might fix your grouchiness, at least," she teased him.

"You know what would be better than ice cream?" Tobias asked. Somehow, he had moved so that he was standing directly in front of Reid. "More _morphine._"

"Shut up!" Reid shouted. Garcia and Morgan frowned at him.

"I had no idea ice cream was so upsetting," Morgan commented, as the elevator finally arrived at their floor.

"I'm a little uptight," Reid mumbled, as Garcia pushed the wheelchair out of the elevator. "Sorry."

"Ask them, already," Tobias snapped as they made their way down the hallway. Reid ignored him. "If you get Morgan to back you, then you can convince Hotch to change his mind," he said.

Reid sighed. "Morgan?" he prompted.

"What's up, kid?" Morgan asked. However, Morgan did not appear to be paying attention, as one of the prettier nurses had caught his eye and was now smiling at him and twirling her hair. Morgan stood up a little straighter and waved at her.

"_Morgan," _Reid repeated. After a second, Morgan tore his eyes away from the nurse and looked at Reid.

"What?" he asked, now seeming a little annoyed.

"You have to convince Hotch to change his mind," Reid said. "If we let Booker—"

"It'll be fine, Reid, you just need to rest," Morgan said, now officially not paying attention. "I'll be right back." He reached down and ruffled Reid's hair playfully—which did not make Reid any happier—then took off in the direction of the nurse.

"She's no good for him," Garcia commented airily. "Far too slutty."

"Are you people _incapable _of focusing on anything important?" Reid snapped.

"Don't worry, Reid," Garcia said cheerily. "I'll go get you some ice cream right now. Wait here." With that, she pushed her way into the cafeteria, leaving Reid sitting in the middle of the hallway.

Immediately, Reid turned around and began wheeling himself in the opposite direction. "Where are you going, Reid?" Morgan called, his attention momentarily diverted from the nurse.

"Bathroom!" Reid shouted. "Is that allowed?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned the corner into a deserted hallway, and began making his way towards the elevator again.

"Fucking goddamnit," he muttered towards Tobias. "I never realized how much I _hate _those people."

"You don't _hate _them," Tobias said, rolling his eyes. "You're just angry because they're taking _care_ of you instead of taking you _seriously_."

"Yes!" Reid snapped. "Wouldn't you be?"

"I don't exist," Tobias reminded him.

"Whatever," Reid snapped. He was too angry at his teammates to be angry at Tobias for not existing. "They didn't listen to me about Booker the first time—I end up getting shot in the leg. And now, they're _still _not listening to me, despite the fact that—"

"They feel guilty," Tobias said. "They want you to relax. They don't want you to worry."

"Well, _that's _working out well," Reid snapped. "Clearly, they've thought this—" However, Reid was forced to stop midsentence as he heard someone's footsteps rounding the corner. Seconds later, Rossi appeared.

"You've certainly got good luck today," Tobias commented sarcastically, as Reid hastily attempted to wheel himself away from the older profiler before he was noticed.

"Trying to escape, are we?" Rossi called. Reid sighed, giving up, then turned back around.

"Garcia," Reid muttered. "Morgan. Ice cream…"

"Ah, yes," Rossi said, raising his eyebrows. "Ice cream. The horror."

Reid sighed. "Booker's trying to kill us," he said. "We can't just _ignore _him."

"We aren't," Rossi said. "Another team branch of the FBI—"

"He doesn't want to play the game with _them,_" Reid said. "He wants to play it with _us. _With _me._"

"Well, then," Rossi said. "We should naturally give him exactly what he wants."

Reid gritted his teeth. He didn't answer.

"It _isn't _a game, Reid," he said. "You can't let him turn it into one. If you play games with monsters, you'll lose."

"And if we _don't _play…" Reid trailed off. "Someone else will. But it's not their game to lose."

"Whose is it, then? Is it yours?"

Reid didn't answer. He just shook his head. "He'll _force _us to play," he muttered. "Somehow, he will. It doesn't matter whether we _want _to, or not." Rossi didn't answer. "People are going to die," he said.

"_C'est la vie,_" replied Rossi. "You can't save everyone, Reid."

"I don't want to," Reid replied. "I just don't want him to win the game."

"He won't," Rossi replied. "They never do," He put his hands on the back of the wheelchair and began pushing Reid back in the direction he came.

Reid glanced up at Tobias, who was looking at Rossi with profound irritation. "He won't win," Reid muttered, glancing back at his hands. He wasn't sure if he was speaking to Rossi or Tobias.

"He might not," said Tobias. "But neither will we."

**O**

"Jack! _Now!_"

Jessica Hotchner watched as the young boy slumped into the room, sat down at the table, and stared at the bowl of macaroni in front of him.

Jessica sighed. "What now?" she asked. "I thought that was your favorite."

"Not anymore." Jack sounded so melancholy that any irritation evaporated immediately.

"Why not?" she asked.

Jack shrugged. "When's daddy coming home?" he asked.

"I don't know, Jack, I'm sure he'll be back in—" Jessica broke off midsentence as the doorbell rang. She let out a loud sigh of irritation. "I'll be right back," she said to Jack. She hurried to the door and swung it open hastily.

"Hello?" she demanded. A young man stood in front of her in an oversized sweatshirt—he was shivering, with both hands stuffed deep inside his pockets.

"Hi," he said. "Are you Mrs. Hotchner?"

Jessica pursed her lips. "Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm supposed to fix your heater," he said to her. "Mr. Hotchner called me."

"He didn't say anything about that," she suspiciously.

She could hear Jack coming up behind her. "Hey there, little man," he said to Jack.

"Our heater is fine," Jessica interjected, stepping in front of Jack.

The man laughed. "Well," he said. "Apparently, your husband disagrees."

"He's my brother in law," she snapped. "We don't need our heater fixed. Please go away." She tried to close the door—however, man stuck his foot out and prevented it from shutting. With a strength that was unexpected considering his size, he pushed the door out of the way and stepped into the house.

"Jack," Jessica hissed, "Run—"

"Now, listen," the man said, before she could finish her sentence. Her eyes fell to the hand which had been in his pocket—now, it was holding a gun.

"Listen," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We don't want any—"

"You're obviously smart," the man interrupted. He raised the gun to point directly at her forehead. Jack let out a whimper of terror, and clutched onto her pant leg. "Unfortunately," he continued, "this is one of the few times where it's going to get you killed." The man glanced down at Jack—he gave him a small smile, as if the entire thing was a game—some sort of hoax. Then he looked back up at Jessica.

And then he fired.


	13. Chapter 13

**I hope everyone had an exciting Thanksgiving! Oh, and anyone who reviewed shall henceforth be considered exemplary model of good citizenship.**

"_Genius is but the capacity to see ten things where the ordinary man sees one." –Ezra Pound_

"Book draw," Tobias said in a bored voice. "Again."

Reid sighed, staring at the few pieces remaining on the board. "Playing chess against myself used to be a lot more fun," he muttered. "At least I wasn't accused of _cheating_ five times a game."

"You kept putting my pieces on the wrong squares," Tobias said, looking affronted.

"It's not _my_ fault you kept changing your mind halfway through each move—which was idiotic, anyways, because I _knew _you were going to change your mind, because I _knew_ which moves you were going to make, so you were clearly doing it _just _to irritate the hell out of—"

"Reid?"

Reid started so badly that he knocked half of the pieces onto the floor. "G-Garcia," he stammered, turning his head to look at the person who had just barged into his room. She was staring at him with wide eyes.

"You're in for it, now," Tobias said.

"I think aloud sometimes," Reid hurriedly, by way of explanation. "It was a very involved game of chess, which sometimes requires—"

"You'd better come outside, Reid," Garcia said, clearly unfazed by the fact that he had been talking to himself. "Something's happened." It was at this point Reid realized that her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Uh-oh," Tobias said.

**O**

Hotch dialed the number again. "Goddamnit, _answer _your phones," he snapped. The waiting room was empty except for Rossi and Morgan—but Hotch was barely aware of them. "Why won't you _answer _your goddamn _phones!" _he shouted, once he was confronted with the voicemail again.

"I'm sure they're doing everything they can, Hotch," Morgan said softly.

Hotch just shook his head. "What the hell am I supposed to tell Jack's grandmother?" he snapped, barely aware of the panicked and angry words that flowed from his mouth. "I'm sorry I got your two daughters killed, Mrs. Brooks—but your only grandchild is being held hostage by a psychopathic serial killer, _again, _and the detectives who are _supposed _to be looking for him won't even answer their _phones_—"he broke off suddenly, unable to speak anymore. He had never felt so useless in his entire life. Finally, after a moment or two of silence, he swore loudly, threw the phone at the wall, then stormed out of the room.

He saw Garcia hurrying down the hallway—she was accompanied by Reid, who was unsuccessfully attempting keep up with her while on crutches. Hotch would have laughed under any other circumstances—at that moment, however, he felt nothing but rage. He ducked his head and tried to push by them—but Reid reached out and stopped him from passing.

"Hotch," Reid said. "Garcia told me what happened."

"Get out of the way," Hotch snapped. Somewhere, something in the back of his head warned him that he needed to listen to Reid—but his thoughts were so obscured by horror and anger that he was unable to listen to it.

"If this is a game for him, then we're the king," Reid said. "It's _us _he wants to beat. Jack's just a pawn—he's expendable, but he doesn't _have _to die."

Before Hotch knew what had happened, he had shoved his way past Reid, upsetting the young agent's balance completely and causing him to topple onto the floor. Garcia let out a cry of distress—Reid, however, barely seemed to notice.

"He doesn't have to die because he's not the main target," Reid continued, completely unfazed by the fact that he was now on the ground. "Booker kidnapped Jack to convince us to play—or, more specifically, to convince _you _to play."

Hotch turned around, furious. "Congratulations, Reid," he snapped, "You were _right. _You're always _right. _Does that make you happy?"

Reid still seemed rather oblivious of his anger—or, if he wasn't, he chose to ignore it. "As long as Jack is convincing us to play, he'll keep him alive," Reid said. "If we _don't _play, he'll resort to more extreme measures. If we win the game, we might save him. If we don't play, he'll kill Jack—and a lot of other people, as well."

Hotch just stared at Reid furiously, trying in vain to calm himself down. Garcia hovered anxiously beside Reid, trying to help him to his feet—but Reid barely seemed to notice. His eyes slipped past Hotch and focused on something in the distance.

"Hotch!" The voice came from across the hall—it was Morgan. He was holding up Hotch's phone, which he had apparently left behind in his anger. He ran up to the group, looking too panicked to ask why Reid was on the floor.

"Strauss just called," he said grimly, handing the phone to Hotch. "There's a reason why the other detectives weren't answering their phones. A bomb placed under their car detonated while they were on the highway—it killed five of them, and three other people. And he left this." Morgan opened a text message from Strauss—it was a picture of a note, scrawled in the same difficult handwriting as the one from the basement. The three of them crowded around the phone, reading it.

"What is it? I can't see!" Reid snapped, attempting to hoist himself up using a combination of his left crutch and Morgan's arm.

Morgan glanced at Hotch—but the older agent was unable to move. He just stared at the note, transfixed by horror and a dead sort of panic. Finally, Morgan cleared his throat and began to read.

_Dear BAU,_

_I knew you wouldn't _actually _consider abandoning our game—since it seems you've forgotten about my first note, I've left you a reminder. _

_I understand you've been a bit depressed lately, Agent Hotchner—after all, the death of a family member is never easy. But I know you'll be playing even harder than ever—we wouldn't want to risk something like that happening again. _

_You should listen to my dear friend Spencer more often—I know that _he _hasn't forgotten me. After all, we're so much alike—and I'm sure he's excited to play as I am. _

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Officer Lloyd Booker_


	14. Chapter 14

**Happy December! This chapter is long to make up for the shortness of the other one. Thanks for reading and reviewing! You're all wonderful people. And, just in case anyone was wondering, a "book draw" is a chess game that ends in a draw because both players have made all of the right moves.**

"_How dreadful it would be, to be caught up in a game and have no idea of the rules." – Caroline Stevermer_

"It's just not a good idea, Aaron."

Hotch shook his head, refusing to meet his older coworker's eyes. "We've taken the case," he muttered. "Someone has to."

"Yes," Rossi said, "_Someone. _Not you. Stay here with Reid and—"

"I have to do _something!_" Hotch snapped, cutting Rossi off.

"Stay here with Reid," Rossi continued, raising his eyebrows, "And you can interview locals from the town—Booker grew up here, and they'll probably give us a hell of a lot more information than anything we'll find at your house."

Hotch shut his eyes, pressing both palms to his head. At Rossi's words, a horrific picture of Jessica's body flashed into his mind—he was terrified to investigate the crime scene, but somehow felt it would be cowardly not to.

"You don't need to punish yourself, Aaron," Rossi replied softly.

Hotch exhaled swiftly. "Fine," he muttered. "You, Garcia, and Morgan can go back to D.C. I'll stay here with Reid and JJ—"

"JJ is taking Henry over to Will's brother's house, in California," Rossi interrupted.

"Fine, just me and _Reid, _then," Hotch snapped—the brief mention of Henry had reminded him of Jack, and there was a distinct feeling of nausea brewing in his stomach.

"One of us can stay," Rossi offered, "I don't want you two to kill each other."

"I'm not mad at Reid," Hotch muttered. "Why _would _I be?"

"According to Garcia, your earlier actions beg to differ." Rossi raised his eyebrows.

"It'll be fine," Hotch said hurriedly. "I'll go tell him right now." With that, he turned and walked briskly down the hallway towards Reid's room.

_Act calm, _he told himself. _They think you're losing it. You're _not _losing it. _When he entered Reid's room, however, he couldn't help the violent flare of irritation when he noticed that the young doctor was playing chess. With himself.

"Nothing better to do right now?" Hotch snapped, unable to help himself. Reid jumped a little bit—as if he had only just noticed him—then frowned, looking confused.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Hotch muttered. "It's nothing. Sorry. I just came to tell you—you and I are staying here to interview the local residents. The rest of the team is flying back soon."

"Sure, okay," Reid muttered distractedly.

Hotch frowned at him. "Are you paying attention?" he asked.

It was with some difficultly that Reid raised his head and focused on Hotch. "What?" he asked again.

Hotch exhaled sharply. "We're going soon. Interviewing witnesses. Get dressed," he snapped.

"Get dressed—right—okay—" Reid muttered, pushing the chess board out of the way and looking around in confusion. "Ah," he muttered. "Somebody's stolen my clothes. I can't go like this, can I?"

Hotch sighed. "In a hospital gown? No. You can't. Nobody's stolen your clothes, Garcia put your suitcase on the chair." He pointed.

"Figured as much," Reid muttered. "Too cold. The chair, you say?"

"Yes," Hotch snapped, "I'll come back when you're ready. And could you hurry up?" Hotch left feeling even more irritated than when he'd entered the room.

"Hotch!" Hotch paused, sighed, then turned around. It was Morgan.

"We're about to head out," Morgan said, jogging up to Hotch. "Reid's doctor cleared him to go."

"Right," he muttered. "By the way—I think they're giving him too much morphine."

Morgan shrugged. "Kid got shot," he said. "I told them about the Dilaudid thing, so they really aren't giving him _that _much—besides, he's been clean for years. I'm sure it'll be fine."

"It's not _that_," Hotch muttered. "He's just…really _weird_."

Morgan laughed. "You're just noticing this?" he asked, grinning. "Or more so than usual?" Hotch just scowled darkly at the ground, unable to return his coworker's smile.

"It'll be alright, Hotch," Morgan said softly, his voice at once changing to sympathy. "You'll see."

Hotch was silent for a long moment. "I don't know," he muttered eventually. Without looking at Morgan again, he turned and walked away down the hall.

**O**

"No more morphine?" Tobias shouted. "This is an _outrage. _This is an _abomination. _A _monstrosity._"

"Will you calm down?" Reid snapped. "You made me look like an idiot because I couldn't _hear _what the hell Hotch is saying."

"No more hospital means no more morphine," Tobias continued, undeterred. "We cannot _deal _with no more _morphine. _We've been _shot, _for god's sake."

"I'll still be on pain meds, just not as much," Reid said.

"Not _enough_," Tobias hissed.

"_You're _just afraid it'll make you disappear," Reid snapped, rolling his eyes.

"And _you're _afraid it _won't_," Tobias retorted, without missing a beat.

"You're probably the most annoying person I've ever met."

"I could say the same thing for you. And I _am,_ if you think about it."

Reid glared at Tobias for a moment longer. "Goddamnit," he muttered eventually. "Let's just go."

"Hey," Tobias said, as Reid was reaching for his clothes, "Doesn't Booker have a sister?"

**O**

Hotch rang the doorbell and waited. He gritted his teeth, glanced at his watch, then shot one more annoyed look at Reid, who was leaning casually against the railing beside him.

The two of them had spent the past hour redoing the search of Booker's apartment—they had found absolutely nothing useful, and Hotch was even more irritated than ever. Not only had Reid continuously alternated between periods of babbling incessantly and long stretches of distracted silence, he'd had the tendency to completely forget that he was unable to walk, resulting in three or four occasions on which he had tripped over some unfortunate object and nearly killed himself. Eventually, he had apparently decided that two crutches were a "hindrance," and resolved to use only one— as a result, he had been half limping, half hopping everywhere for the past hour.

To make matters worse, it had been _Reid _who had come up with the idea to visit Booker's sister—which had been such an obvious next step Hotch couldn't believe he had missed it. Hotch frowned bitterly, shoved his hands in his pockets, then glared at Reid some more. When Reid noticed that Hotch was staring at him, he gave him a rather oblivious smile then continued to frown at some random point on the front lawn.

"She's probably not home," Hotch snapped.

"Lights are on," Reid commented mildly.

"She's probably helping Booker," Hotch muttered. "And we're about to be attacked by a machete-wielding unsub and his goddamn lunatic sister."

"That's not in the profile at _all,_" Reid said. "Besides, we didn't have time to call her to the station."

"I _know _that, Reid," Hotch snapped, "I was just trying to express my—"

However, Hotch was forced to stop speaking when he heard the sound of a door unlatching. A very young, thin looking woman opened the door—although Hotch had planned to be intimidating in case the sister was hiding information, he found it decidedly difficult—the young woman couldn't have been more than twenty years old, and barely came up to his shoulder.

Hotch cleared his throat. "Eva Booker?" he said. "This is the FBI." He held out his badge. "We'd just like to ask you a couple of questions about your brother. It's very urgent."

Eva glanced back and forth from Hotch to Reid. "The sheriff told me what happened," she said eventually. "He called me. _Zoom._" She muttered this last word under her breath—Hotch frowned at Reid, who shrugged.

"Alright," Hotch said. "May we come in?"

"If I say no, do you have to ask all the questions from the outside?" she asked, giving them a playful smile.

"We'd come back with a warrant," Hotch said.

"To search the house?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Don't you need probable cause?"

Hotch gritted his teeth. "The fact that you don't want us in your house implies you have something to hide," he said, trying to hurry things along.

"Well _that_ seems like roundabout logic, doesn't it?" Eva asked.

"We don't have time for this," Hotch snapped. "Your brother has killed innocent people. Are you going to open the door or not?"

Eva widened her eyes. "Are you the bad cop?" she asked. _"Zoom," _she muttered.

"This is ridiculous," Hotch snapped to Reid, turning to leave.

"You _can _come in, of course," Eva said, stepping back and allowing the door to open. "If I _was _guilty of anything, I wouldn't be foolish enough to act so suspicious. Do you want something to eat? Do you want coffee?"

"No, thank you," Hotch replied, at the same time as Reid said, "Yes, please." Hotch shot Reid an even angrier look—Reid looked slightly guilty, but shrugged.

"Force of habit," he said. "I'm sorry."

"No coffee, thanks, we're in a hurry," Hotch told Eva.

"Oh—a hurry?" she asked. _"Zoom. _Why didn't you say so?" Hotch stepped inside as Eva led them into the dining room—as he looked around, he noticed that the small house was in complete disarray. Books and clothes and old newspapers lay everywhere.

"Do you have any children?" Hotch asked, as they were sitting down—although Garcia had already told him the answer, he wanted to see what she would say.

"No," Eva replied. "I'm still in college. _Zoom_."

"Your brother had a picture in his apartment," Hotch said, "Supposedly of his niece. Do you have any other siblings?"

Eva laughed. "You already know the answers to these questions," she said. "We don't have any other siblings. It might have been my cousin's daughter."

Hotch sighed. "Alright," he muttered. "When was the last time you spoke to your brother?"

Eva shrugged. "About a week ago," she said.

"What did he say?" Hotch prompted. "Anything memorable?"

"No," she said. "_Zoom. _I don't have any idea where he is, if that's what you're asking—he never tells me _anything_."

"What _did _you talk about?" Hotch asked.

Eva shrugged. "Well," she said. "I was chastising him about Thanksgiving."

Hotch frowned. "What? Why?"

She sighed. "Well, he was supposed to bring over a Christmas tree for Thanksgiving. But he _didn't. _He didn't come over and missed it entirely."

"Why did you want him to bring a Christmas tree for Thanksgiving?" Reid asked, frowning.

"Well, it's always too cold to have a tree in the house around Christmas," Eva said mildly. _"Zoom."_

Hotch ignored the fact that this made absolutely no sense and decided to move the questioning along.

"How old were you when your parents died?" he asked.

"About eight," she said. _"Zoom."_

"And you found their bodies?" Hotch asked.

"Well, yes," she said. "I thought they were asleep until I tried to pull my father out of bed. Then he fell. On the _floor._" She frowned. "He looked a bit like a doll, I suppose. One of those large ones, with the floppy arms and legs. _Zoom. _It was a strange experience. I was lucky the ventilation system that poisoned them was sporadic, or I might've been toast, as well."

Hotch glanced at Reid, distinctly unnerved by her nonchalant manner. Reid, however, was studying the girl with intense eyes.

"And how'd you feel about that?" Reid asked.

Eva shrugged. "Relieved, I suppose," she said. "I would have hated to be dead."

"But were you sad?" Hotch snapped. "At all? Was your brother upset?"

"Of course I was _sad,_" she said, rolling her eyes. "Lloyd seemed unhappier than I was, though. I know that cabin was his favorite place to stay, and we weren't allowed there anymore. _Zoom._"

Hotch just stared at the girl. After a small silence, Reid spoke up. "Did Lloyd have any other favorite places?" he asked.

"Not really," she said. "Once we had lived with our grandparents for awhile, he mostly stayed in his room…" she trailed off. "Wait a moment," she said, "Are you Agent Reid?"

Reid's eyes darted away from Eva's face, then returned several moments later. "How'd you know?" he asked.

"Lloyd told me about you," she said. "Aren't you awfully smart?"

"Pretty smart," Reid admitted. "What did he tell you?"

Eva smiled. "He said you were a genius," she said. "But easily distracted."

Reid looked taken aback. "Oh," he said. "Did he say anything else?"

She shrugged. "Not really," she said. "Just that he'd love to play a game of chess with you. I used to play chess with him a lot when we were younger—he _claimed _to be really good, but he always cheated. _Zoom._"

"Cheated?" Reid asked. "How so?"

"Well," she said, "He'd get you to look away for _just a second—_and he was very good at it, too, because _I'm _the only one who ever noticed—and when you'd look back, the board would be completely different. But most people—_especially _people who are easily distracted—they wouldn't even _notice _the board was different. Or if they did, they didn't have any way to prove it. _Zoom._"

For the first time all evening, Reid seemed completely focused. "Huh," he muttered.

"You've got to be careful, Agent Reid," she said. "They say that cheaters never win. But they usually _do—_they get away with it, because nobody realizes they've cheated until it's too late."

Hotch was extremely angry. "Look," he snapped. "We don't have time to talk about chess. Do you have any other _useful _information to tell us?"

Eva shrugged. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm easily distracted, too. I really _do _hope you catch him, though—I know he's my brother and all, but he's a bit of an ass all the same."

Hotch left the house in a state of confused frustration. "Well," he snapped, once they had made their way back into the car, "That was a complete fucking waste of time. I'd say the only thing we learned is that the entire goddamn family is completely insane."

"She had obsessive compulsive disorder," Reid muttered, staring out the window. "She kept saying _zoom—_"

"I think that's really the least of our problems right now," Hotch snapped. "That was really productive. A goddamn smartass lunatic chess player. Excellent. Great idea, Reid, we really got a lot of information out of—"

Hotch's cell phone started ringing—letting out a hiss of annoyance, he dug it out of his pocket and flipped it open.

"Hello?" he snapped.

"Hello, Agent Hotch," Strauss said—her voice was dark and sounded strained, and Hotch felt his blood turn to ice.

"What happened?" Hotch asked tersely, his heart pounding in his chest. "What's wrong?" In the background, Hotch heard Reid mutter _shh_, then turn his attention to his boss.

"You might want to pull over for this, Hotch," Strauss said.

Hotch could barely find his voice. "Just tell me," he whispered.

"It's your agent," Strauss said. "Agent Jareau. She and her son have disappeared. Their car was found abandoned in a convenience store parking lot."

Hotch felt the oddest combination of relief, fear, and confusion. "What?" he asked breathlessly, trying to wrap his head around this new development. "But…how could he have known…"

"What's going on?" Reid demanded. Hotch ignored him.

"I don't know, Agent Hotchner," Strauss said. "We'll call you with any new developments."

Hotch closed the phone in a state of shock. He stared ahead at the road, barely conscious of the fact that he was still driving.

"What happened, Hotch?" Reid demanded once again.

Hotch took a deep breath, finally locating his voice. "It's JJ and Henry," he said hoarsely. "They've disappeared."

Reid just stared at him. "What?" he asked.

Hotch didn't respond. He just continued driving.

"That doesn't make any sense," Reid muttered. "We're already playing the game with him. JJ was hardly one of his biggest threats—now he's got to hold _three _people captive—what's the point in that?"

"So he's a psychopath, Reid," Hotch snapped, losing patience. "He's an evil and sadistic son of a bitch—"

"But there was always a _reason _he did things," Reid said. "I could always figure out _why. _And if I can't…" he trailed off, then turned to Hotch with wide eyes. Hotch was barely listening.

After a long silence, Reid spoke once again. "If I don't know his strategy," he muttered, "We won't win the game."


	15. Chapter 15

**SUPER THANKS TO ALL READERS AND REVIEWERS! I appear to have missed a week (and a day) in terms of updating, for which I am sincerely apologetic. I am rather inept at counting. Anyways—I hope you enjoy the chapter!—and I plan to update again next Saturday, like usual.**

"_The only difference between me and a madman is that I'm not mad." –Salvador Dal__í_

Hotch's phone was ringing.

He rolled over and stared at it apathetically. He hadn't been asleep, yet still felt the full annoyance of someone who had been rudely awakened.

"This is Hotch." His voice sounded odd and separated—disembodied—robotic. He hadn't slept in two days. He couldn't pull himself out of his head. He couldn't stop thinking of Jack.

"Hey, Hotch—did I wake you?"

Morgan. Hotch shook his head—realized that Morgan couldn't see him—then sighed. "What's wrong?" he asked. Hotch heard a movement from the other side of the room—Reid, who had been asleep on the pull-out bed, now sat up and gave Hotch an inquiring look. Hotch sighed and put it on speakerphone.

"Someone called and left a message," Morgan said, his voice booming out across the room.

"Someone?" Hotch asked.

"It had to be Booker," Morgan replied, sounding excited. "It matched his voice exactly, and—"

"Of course," Hotch muttered. "No use in disguising your voice if the police already know who you are. Of course, you weren't able to trace—"

"No," Morgan interrupted. "That's just it, Hotch. The cell phone he used was destroyed right afterwards—but it wasn't disposable. Garcia was able to trace it back to Boston. He messed up, Hotch. We already told the local PD to set up road blocks—"

"He didn't mess up." This remark came from Reid, who was now wide-eyed and sitting up on the couch. Hotch's brief stirrings of hope were now replaced with profound irritation. "Booker wouldn't make such a stupid mistake. He's too smart for that."

Hotch heard Morgan's laugh coming from the other end of the line. "Believe or not, pretty boy, smart people make stupid mistakes." Reid looked like his was about to protest again, but Hotch spoke before he could.

"Thanks, Morgan," he said, hurriedly. "Reid and I will head out now."

There was a small pause from the other end of the phone. "Are you sure, Hotch?" he asked.

"That I want to find the man who kidnapped my son?" Hotch snapped. He was already standing up and getting dressed. "Fairly sure, yeah."

"All I mean is—it's the middle of the night—Rossi and I could go, and—"

"We're closer," Hotch said. He had already grabbed a suitcase and began throwing both his and Reid's possessions inside. "And we're going now. You and Rossi stay with Garcia and see if you can find anything out about the call. You can fly down later. We can't let him have any advantage over us, no matter how small."

"What was the message?" Reid interjected, once Hotch finally stopped for air.

There was a pause from the other end. "Just a bunch of nonsense," Morgan said. "It didn't make any sense to me, but I can send it to your phone if you want, Reid—"

"Yes, yes, do that," Hotch snapped. "In the _meantime,_ Reid, if you could get up and get dressed—that would be great—here, you're all packed." Hotch tossed a bag at Reid—whom it exactly belonged to, he wasn't completely sure. "We'll call you once we're in the air, Morgan," Hotch said. He snapped the phone shut and turned to Reid—who, to his utter fury, had not moved.

"We can't go, Hotch," Reid said, his eyes wide. "You _know _it's a trap. Don't you?"

"Who _cares_?" Hotch shouted, immediately overwhelmed by panic and fury. "All I know is that he's got to be _there _to _make _the phone call—whether or not it's a goddamn trap—and wherever he is, that's where JJ and Henry are, that's where my _son _is, and I don't care what the hell he has planned because I'm going to ring his neck the second I—"

"Hotch!" Reid interrupted, his voice growing shrill with alarm. "You're not acting like yourself. You're not rational. You're afraid. You feel guilty. And you haven't slept in two days. We have to plan the next move carefully. You can't just act on impulse, because Booker's always two moves ahead of—"

"This isn't a goddamn _chess _game, Reid!" Hotch snapped, completely exasperated. "Wasn't it _you _that said we had to engage him, or things would get worse? You even _said _you don't understand his strategy anymore. So _I'm_ not going to lose my son the same way I lost Jessica and Haley just because _you're _afraid of being outsmarted!"

Reid just stared at him with an open mouth. "You're _completely _missing the point," he insisted, although he sounded more surprised than angry. However, he pushed himself to his feet and began reaching for his shoes, voicing no further protests.

Hotch gritted his teeth and finished tying his shoes. As he reached into his pocket for his car keys, his mind was already racing ahead to Boston—he had no idea _what _Booker's plan was, and he didn't particularly care. He was going to find his son—alive—no matter the consequences.

**O**

"Ooh, he hates you _so _much," Tobias jeered gleefully, sitting in the seat across from Reid with his arms behind his head.

Reid ignored him and turned to look out the window. Hotch, it seemed, had finally given in to his exhaustion and was fast asleep across the plane—as far away from Reid as possible. To make matters worse, they were apparently flying through some sort of thunderstorm, which caused the plane to lurch back and forth violently every minute or so.

"I don't need this right now," Reid muttered to Tobias.

"You stopped arguing because you felt _bad _for him," Tobias said, his tone one of outraged disbelief.

"That's not the true," Reid muttered. "He made the choice for the wrong reasons, but we _do _need to go to Boston. We have to go forward with the investigation. We don't—ah!" Reid gripped the table as a particularly violent lurch nearly flung him from his seat.

"You know you have a problem," Tobias mused, "When you're arguing with the hallucination of a man you killed, and you're the sanest person on the plane."

Reid steadied himself, shot Tobias an irritated look, and didn't respond.

"There is the pilot, I suppose," Tobias mused. "Although we haven't met him yet, so we can't be sure. Hmm," he said, glancing out at the sky. "_This stormy night will turn us all into fools and madmen."_

"You," Reid snapped, "Are finally forcing me to realize how incredibly annoying I am."

"What you _should _have done," Tobias continued, undeterred, "Is spent more time interviewing his sister. If Hotch hadn't made you leave so quickly—"

"He's the boss," Reid interrupted.

"So of course," Tobias said, "You should mindlessly accept all of his orders, even if he's on the verge of an emotional breakdown."

"That's not what I'm _doing_," Reid said.

"What _are _you doing, then?" Tobias asked.

Reid was saved from responding when his phone lit up. "Morgan texted me," he told him. He flipped it open. "Oh," he muttered. "It's the message that Booker left."

"How the hell do you have reception?" Tobias asked incredulously.

Reid ignored him, and began to read the message.

_People can die of mere imagination murder will out this my conclusion t__he reason for living is to stay dead a long time uh oh population overflow common group but it'll do save yourself serve yourself world serves its own needs listen to your heart bleed d__o I dare disturb the universe I am he as you are me and we are all together his existence is diminished vaguer and more unreal than a syllogism of signs they will not let me have all fool to myself they'll be snatching the reason for living is to stay dead a long time the reason for living is to stay dead a long time the reason for living is to stay dead a long time_

"Well," Tobias said, once Reid had finished reading. "That was interesting."

And that was when the plane gave one last, violent lurch, and everything went dark.


	16. Chapter 16

**THANK YOU for reading and reviewing! This chapter is rather short, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless…oh, and have an awesome Christmas!**_  
"We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds—our planet is the mental institution of the universe." –Johann Wolfgang von Goethe_

Morgan let out a sigh and closed his phone. "Well," he muttered, glancing at Garcia with distinct irritation, "Reid isn't answering his phone."

Garcia raised her eyebrows. "They were supposed to have landed by now," she said quizzically, turning back to her computers.

Morgan started once his phone began to ring. "Oh," he muttered. "It's Hotch—one second. Hello?"

"Hey, Morgan," Hotch said. "We just landed—apparently, one of the engines powering the plane started to fail because of the weather, but the backup one kicked in about two seconds later. Did you find out anything else about Booker?"

Morgan glanced at Garcia. "Is Reid there?" he asked Hotch.

Hotch's tone, which had been fairly calm for the first part of the conversation, now turned to one of suspicion. "Why?" he demanded. "What happened?"

Morgan sighed. "A young couple was found killed in an alley just outside the place where we traced the phone call from," he said. "But don't do anything rash, Hotch—wait for the police department to—Hotch?" Morgan stared at the phone in frustration—his boss had hung up on him.

"Maybe it's the bad reception?" Garcia suggested.

"Sure," Morgan muttered. "Let's blame it on that." He sighed. "I'm worried about him. He isn't acting like himself."

"His son is missing," Garcia said. "It's understandable. This is different than last time. Booker already killed Jessica. And Halley isn't there to protect him."

"I know," Morgan said. "I'm just worried…" he trailed off. "I know he's a good profiler," he said, "And he's a smart guy. But I'm worried that he'll end up doing something really stupid."

**O**

"Well," Hotch muttered, "This tells us a lot."

He was standing with Reid and the police detective, staring at two bodies who had been shot, execution-style.

"We found them early this morning," the detective said. "The bartender heard shots, so he called us—and they were just lying here. No footprints. No _nothing_."

"He took no pleasure in these kills," Reid muttered—although, Hotch noticed, he seemed rather distracted, and kept rubbing his leg and glancing nervously from side to side. "There was a clear purpose for them—to let the police know that we're here. It's a _trap,_ Hotch," he muttered.

Hotch didn't care. "Did you set up roadblocks?" he asked the detective.

The detective shrugged. "To the best of our ability," he said, "But it's _Boston, _Agent Hotchner—it probably won't be difficult for him to slip through the cracks somehow."

Hotch gritted his teeth in frustration. "Then we have to act fast," he said. "We need to look for anywhere he could hide three people—abandoned warehouses, empty apartment buildings—"

"I think I have to go to the bathroom," Reid muttered, interrupting the two of them. "Excuse me." Hotch and the police detective stared at him in confusion.

"There's something else, Agent Hotchner," the detective muttered. "We found a note with the bodies—we sent it to be searched for fingerprints, but I have a copy here." He handed Hotch a piece of paper.

"Great," Hotch muttered, "Another goddamn note for us to…he trailed off suddenly, frowning. "This is just a bunch of numbers," Hotch muttered. "What does it mean?"

The detective shrugged. "Beats me," he muttered. "We've got a couple guys at the station trying to decode it now, but…" he jabbed a finger in the direction where Reid had disappeared. "We had a feeling your guy would have more luck with it."

"Right," Hotch muttered. "I'll ask him."

**O**

Reid's leg hurt like hell.

He stared at the bathroom mirror, gritting his teeth. He was aware that he had been taking too many pain pills after he'd left the hospital—however, for some reason he _hadn't _expected how hard it would be to _stop _taking them. "Pain meds are wearing off," he muttered to Tobias. Tobias, however, had fallen silent, and simply stared at him with sad eyes.

"I can't take any more, you know," Reid muttered, through gritted teeth. "I know you might disappear. But you're _supposed _to. You're a hallucination."

Tobias said nothing.

Reid clutched his leg again, shutting his eyes. For some strange reason, he found himself even less convincing than when Tobias had been arguing with him.

"It'll be like Dilaudid, all over again," he muttered. "I can't just _keep _taking pain pills. I'm still on twice the dose that the doctor recommended. I've got to…" he trailed off, and stared at Tobias for several more moments.

"On the other hand," he said, now voicing the arguments that Tobias was not, "Maybe I _should _take more, _because _of the Dilaudid. I've built up a tolerance to opiates, so I _need _more to feel better." He paused for a moment, then continued to rub his leg. "Yeah," he said, agreeing with this newfound viewpoint, "I'll just take more until my leg feels better. Besides, if I'm in pain, how am I going to solve the case?" He glanced sidelong at Tobias, who hadn't moved—Reid hadn't expected it, but for some reason he found the lack of response incredibly unnerving, and found himself dreading Tobias' disappearance almost as much as the pain in his leg.

"Of course," he continued, opening the bottle and pouring several pills into the palm of his hand, "After the case is over—_and _my leg is healed—everything will go back to normal." He nodded once to himself, then popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed before he could change his mind. "That's logical. Isn't it?" he glanced at Tobias—when there was no answer, he just nodded again.

"Of course it is," Reid said. "I'm logical. _We're _logical. Yes," he continued. "Everything will be fine."


	17. Chapter 17

**I hope everyone had a fantastic Christmas! (And, if you're still in school, like me, I hope you're enjoying your vacation!) I also hope that everyone who reviewed is aware of their supreme awesomeness.**

_"Genius is talent set on fire by courage."-Henry Van Dyke_

"It's all just…_garbage,_" Reid muttered, more to himself than Tobias.

"Meaningful garbage," Tobias said.

Reid turned towards him with a look of annoyance. "'Murder will out, this my conclusion,' and 'people can die of pure imagination.' Two quotes by Chaucer. Then, 'the reason for living is to stay dead a long time,' which is _sort _of a quote from Faulkner—sure, fine, okay. But _then _he goes onto quote an REM song for two lines, which makes absolutely no sense, then 'do I dare disturb the universe,' which is T.S. Eliot, then he quotes a _Beatles _song, then E.M. Cioran, of all people, then _Shakespeare, _and then he repeats the same Faulkner quote over and over and over again, and _now _we've got all these goddamn numbers, which are probably even _more _absolutely senseless than the first message, and it's all just designed to waste my time, because he _knows _I'm more likely to drive myself crazy trying to figure out his stupid, senseless riddles than to _actually _make any progress towards the case…" Reid trailed off, staring agonizingly at the papers before him on the table, then sat down dejectedly and resumed his work.

"The sad thing is," Tobias said, "Even though you _know _that, he's _still _going to be right."

"Will you shut up?" Reid snapped, whipping around. "Why did I even decide to keep you around? You're about as useful as…" he trailed off, unable to find a suitable comparison to match his level of anger.

"You keep me around," Tobias said, "Because you're addicted to painkillers. _Again._"

"SHUT UP!" Reid snapped. "This is all _your _fault, anyways! If it hadn't been for you, then _none _of this would have—" Suddenly, Reid broke off. "Wait," he muttered, then returned to the pages. "People can die of mere imagination," he said, turning to look at Tobias bemusedly. "His existence is diminished…the reason for living…" he trailed off. "What if," he said eventually, "The point of the game isn't to _kill _us…"

"He just wants to drive you insane," Tobias finished, raising his eyebrows. "Well, I have to admit—say what you like about the guy—but if that's his goal, he's doing a rather admirable job so far."

Reid cast Tobias an irritated look, but ultimately decided to ignore him. He shook his head slowly. "But if that's what the _message _means," he muttered, "Then what do the _numbers _mean? He wouldn't send the same message twice—there must be some _other _reason—"

However, Reid's thought process was interrupted as the door burst open without warning—it was the deputy, followed closely by Hotch.

"Excuse me," the police officer said, "But we heard some shouting in here. Just who the hell were you talking to?"

**O**

"Trust me," Hotch said, "I know he's a weird kid, but if anyone can figure out those—" he broke off, frowning, as the pair of them heard raised voices coming from the room where Reid was, supposedly, working alone.

"Um," Hotch said, feeling his irritation with Reid rise significantly. "He's probably on the phone with someone. We just—"

_"Shut up!" _The entire hub of police officers turned to stare at the room, as the supposed argument continued in heated tones.

"Yes," Hotch muttered, "Okay. We should probably check on him, then." Trying to conceal his anger, he followed the deputy into the room.

"Excuse me," the deputy said, as Hotch peered over his shoulder, "But we heard some shouting in here." The pair of them glanced around the room, searching for a phone or even a computer—but there was nothing. "Just who the hell were you talking to?" asked the deputy, raising his eyebrows.

Aside from looking guilty, Reid looked incredibly annoyed. "I'm trying to figure something out," he snapped. "Do you _mind?"_ he pointed rather rudely at the door. The deputy glanced once at Hotch, shrugged, then turned and walked out of the room.

"Reid," Hotch hissed, once the deputy had left, "What the _hell _is going on?"

"I'm not sure yet," Reid muttered—his eyes had trailed back to the paper. "Go away." Throwing his hands up in the air, Hotch walked out of the room, but not before he heard Reid mutter, "You're _right, _you know…these _aren't _messages. There's a different purpose entirely."

Hotch walked back into the group of police officers, incredibly embarrassed and more annoyed than he'd thought was possible. "Listen," he began, trying to keep his anger hidden, "I'm sorry. He's not usually this—"

But the deputy was laughing. "It's alright, Agent Hotchner," he said, "You don't need to look so upset—I don't care if your teammate is eccentric. Honestly, if he's as smart as you say he is…" he trailed off, then shook his head. "As long as he helps us with the case, he can spend all day yelling at himself, for all I care. There's no need to look so upset," he repeated. "You should get something to eat—it's time for lunch." Then he clapped Hotch on the shoulder, and the crowd of police officers slowly began to disperse.

Hotch, however, did not move. For some reason, the fact that the officer had not denounced Reid as the lunatic that he was simply made him even angrier—this, in turn, made him feel guilty—which, of course, made him feel even angrier.

"I'll just go to lunch, then," Hotch muttered, even though all of the officers had left. He nodded to himself once, then followed them out of the building.

Hotch could barely taste his lunch—there had been a second, when he had been sitting in the café, watching the hockey game, and the Capitals had scored, that he had _almost _forgotten about the case—but then he was wrenched back into reality. _Your son is being held hostage by a psychopath, _a voice in the back of his head had sneered, _and _you're _watching a hockey game_. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, then tried to return to his lunch.

_You're son is being held hostage by a psychopath, _the voice continued, _and _you're _eating a sandwich. _

Hotch stood up rather abruptly. The group of officers stared at him, looking rather surprised.

"Want to go back, Agent Hotchner?" said the deputy, rather sympathetically. Instead of feeling grateful, however, Hotch found their sympathy disgusting.

"That's alright," he muttered. "I'll—I'll go back by myself. Thanks for lunch." He put down a twenty dollar bill on the table, then turned towards the door.

"But you've barely eaten anything!" The police chief called after him. "Agent Hotchner!"

Hotch walked back to the police station in a frustrated daze, turning bits of information over and over in his mind and coming back to the same conclusions again—what frustrated him more than anything was that his son's fate truly _did _depend on whether or not Reid could decode the goddamn messages, and there was nothing he could do about it.

By the time he arrived back at the station, he was feeling more depressed than ever. With a sigh, he knocked once on Reid's door, then went in—the young man barely seemed to notice him, and was staring avidly at a laptop which he had apparently stolen from one of the police officer's desks. Hotch sat down beside him.

"Listen," he said, "I've been unfair to you. I've been taking out my anger on you, but I hope you know that it's _Booker _I'm mad at—_not _you—and I know that we're in this together, and you're working just as hard as I am to find Jack and JJ and Henry, and that…are you listening to me?" he snapped eventually, once he realized Reid had not looked at him once, but was instead switching his attention rapidly from the screen to the giant mess of papers on the desk.

"What?" Reid asked, looking confused. "Oh, hello. How was lunch? Look, Hotch—we were trying to find a message in the numbers, but it _wasn't _a message—it's an address." He pointed. "See? This was the address of the last attack—not the _address, _specifically, but the location on the coordinate plane—_see? _And this is the address of the one before that, the place where he must have planted that bomb that killed those police officers—here's _your _house, and all the way back here is the location of the his cabin, and then the café, and then the park…" Reid trailed off excitedly, his eyes moving back and forth rapidly.

"Wait," Hotch said, "So…you know where the next attack is going to be?"

Reid furrowed his brow. "Theoretically," he began, cautiously, it should be somewhere in this area. Reid turned the laptop to face Hotch, showing him an outlined location on a map.

"But that's in Boston," Hotch whispered. "That's only two blocks away…" he trailed off. "Do you know when?" he demanded.

Reid shook his head. "Just where," he said. "It could be today, tomorrow, six months from now, six _minutes _from now…" Hotch was no longer listening—he practically pushed Reid out of the way as he hurried towards the door.

_"Hotch!" _Reid snapped—Hotch was forced to pause, and glanced back at Reid in annoyance. "What?" he snapped.

"Booker _gave _us these numbers," Reid said, "This is just…it's so _obviously _a trap that it would almost be better to—"

"To what? Ignore it?" Hotch snapped. Reid stared at him hopelessly. "No," Hotch said. "I'm tired of doing nothing. We're going to have every police officer in the city surrounding that area—no matter _what _he has planned, I don't _care._ I'm going to catch that son-of-a-bitch and I'm going to get back my son." With that, he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving Reid standing there alone.

**O**

"I _knew _you shouldn't have told him," Tobias said condescendingly, as the two of them watched Hotch leave the room. "Now he's going to do something _stupid_—get himself _killed_—just as Booker _planned—_"

"What, did you want me to just keep it to myself?" Reid snapped. "And now, thanks to _you, _every police officer thinks I'm completely insane—so they're _clearly _going to listen to my advice—"

"Hotch is the unit chief," Tobias said, rolling his eyes. "They wouldn't have listened to you _anyways._"

"So what do I do?" Reid asked Tobias, reaching down to touch his leg gingerly—it was hurting a _lot_.

"Well," Tobias said, "You can either _wait, _and see what happens—or you could try and find Booker on your own."

"Well, first," Reid muttered, "We need some more painkillers. Don't you think?"

"Yes," Tobias said, his voice layered with sarcasm. "_That _will help."

"It _might,_" Reid snapped. "It might make _you _less annoying, anyways."

"True," Tobias remarked, as Reid poured several pills into his hand. "You can't think clearly if you're in pain."

"And I need to think _very _clearly," Reid said, making his way over to the sofa and leaning back, awaiting the reprieve from pain and worry that could not be far off.

"Yes," Tobias said, although there was still the hint of a sneer in his voice. "Of _course_."


	18. Chapter 18

**Happy 2013! Thanks for reading and reviewing! Also: if you don't understand what happens at the end of this chapter, all will be explained in the next one (although I think some of you might be able to figure it out.)**

"_Violence, drugs, and insanity have always worked for me, but I wouldn't recommend them for everyone."-Hunter S. Thompson_

When Reid woke up, he heard whistling.

He cracked his eyes open—it took him several seconds to remember where he was. As he took in the room around him, he noticed the source of the whistling, and his confusion turned into annoyance.

"Do you mind?" Reid snapped. "I was asleep."

"Yes, yes," Tobias replied from where he was lounging on top of the table. "You've woken up from your drug induced slumber. Such a calamity. In the meantime, however, isn't there something you've forgotten?"

Reid sat upright abruptly. "Oh, no," he muttered. "Hotch! They've probably already left by now—why wouldn't they tell me? How long was I asleep? What time is it?" He sprang to his feet and began pacing the room.

"Do you really expect me to know that, or do you ask stupid questions just for fun?" Tobias replied, raising his eyebrows.

Reid rounded on Tobias. "Why are you being such a jerk?" he snapped.

"I guess you've answered _my_ question, then," Tobias said. "Carry on."

Reid let out a moan of aggravation and stormed out of the room. Tobias followed him.

"Perhaps," he said. "And, you know this is just a _theory_—perhaps _I'm _mad at you because _you're _mad at yourself, because you decided oxycodone and a nap were more important than your boss' life. Or anybody else's, for that matter."

"I fell asleep by accident," he muttered under his breath as he half-ran down the hallway. "I was trying to think more clearly."

"Interesting," Tobias said, "You can't even handle losing an argument with _yourself_. Why not admit that you were wrong, and just—"

"A _mistake,_" Reid hissed, then turned sharply away from Tobias as he saw a police officer walk by the hallway. "Hey!" he shouted, waving at the officer. "Excuse me! Where did everyone go?"

"You mean the sheriff?" the police officer asked. "They just left fifteen minutes ago. Something about a crime scene. I don't know, I'm not really on the case, but I—"

"Thanks!" Reid said, pushing aside the officer and making his way towards the doors.

"You're going to _walk _there?" Tobias asked, bemusedly. "Excellent plan. You might be able to help identify the bodies."

"I don't know _why_ I decided to keep you around," Reid hissed as he pushed through the doors. "You've done nothing but make sarcastic comments—"

"At least _I _don't cheat at chess."

"This isn't funny!" Reid snapped. "Either help me, or leave me alone!"

"I _am _helping you," Tobias insisted, as Reid turned and started to walk in the direction of the crime scene. "Hotch isn't the only one who's messing up. You're making stupid decisions because you're not thinking clearly—because you _haven't _been, ever since—"

"Wait," Reid interrupted. He stopped short, blinked, then stared at the spot he had been looking at several seconds earlier. "Did you just see…?"

"You're seeing what you want to see," Tobias said. "It's not him—it _can't _be him—hey, come _back _here, that's the wrong way!"

Reid ignored Tobias as he hurried down the alleyway—he rounded a corner just in time to see a head disappear behind the wall.

"JACK!" Reid shouted, breaking into a full out sprint. "Jack—it's Reid—why are you running away, get _back _here!" He rounded the corner again, and saw it for sure this time—Jack Hotchner gave him a terrified look over his shoulder, then turned the corner and disappeared.

Reid followed after him, crossing the alleyway as quickly as he could—panting, he jogged after the small boy who was now only ten or so feet away.

"Jack!" he panted. "It's me—it's _Reid—_I'm here with your dad, we're going to—_ah!_" Reid let out a shout of surprise as his leg gave way underneath him and he fell to the ground. Jack cast one last fearful look at him before taking off once again. He was gone seconds later.

"Damnit! Are you _kidding _me?" Reid snapped.

"Pain exists for a reason," observed Tobias, who was now standing directly in front of him. "Look—you've ripped your stitches."

Reid glanced down at his leg in alarm—sure enough, his entire pant leg had turned crimson with blood.

"Shit," he muttered. He grasped his leg, then pushed himself to his feet. "Why would he run away?" Reid panted, torn between frustration and confusion. "I have to go back…"

"That's a nice thought," said a voice from behind him—it was distinctly familiar, and Reid froze with alarm. "But you've got some business to attend to first. Don't you, Spencer?"

Reid whipped around. "S-stay away," he stammered, taking a cautious step backwards.

"I wouldn't move _too _much, if I were you," Booker said, rubbing his finger over the gun in his hand. "That leg looks pretty bad. Need any help?"

"Where's Jack?" Reid snapped. "What did you do to him?"

"We were just playing a game," Booker said, taking a step closer. "You know how kids are."

"It's not a game," Reid hissed. He thought he heard footsteps coming up behind him, but was unwilling to turn around and take his eyes off of the gun.

"_Life _is a game," Booker said gleefully, walking even closer. "And what an exciting one it is!"

"You're cheating," Reid said, beginning to feel slightly dizzy—possibly from blood loss. "You c-can't take children—they can't defend themselves—take me, but let Jack and Henry go."

"No offense, Spencer," Booker said. "But you're not really in a strong bargaining position right now." He glanced at a spot just behind Reid's head for a moment and smiled.

"Don't worry," he said, giving Reid the same smile. "You're still in the game." Then he nodded.

Reid felt a sharp, horrible pain in the back of his head. He let out a shout of surprise and collapsed to the ground—the scene before him became very blurry, and was seized by a distinct feeling of nausea. He tried to open his eyes, but this only made his head throb more.

He heard someone crouch down beside him—the figure was slender and small, but it was too blurry to make out who it was. "Don't worry," the voice said, surprisingly kindly. "We haven't cheated. _Zoom._"

Seconds later, everything went black.

**O**

Hotch couldn't move.

The sheriff clasped his shoulder in a sympathetic gesture."I'm sorry, Agent Hotchner," he said. "Looks like we got here too late."

Hotch just stared. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the body in front of him.

"Agent Hotchner?" The sheriff prompted. "Are you alright?"

Hotch swallowed once. "I…" he trailed off and continued to stare, his throat constricted by guilt and anger.

The sheriff frowned, then examined Hotch's face more closely. "Did you know the victim, Agent Hotchner?" he asked, after a small pause.

Hotch didn't answer. After a long, drawn out moment of silence, he finally found his voice. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else in the room.

Then he turned his back on the sheriff and walked out of the building.


	19. Chapter 19

**Unfortunately, I lied when I said **_**everything**_** will be explained in this chapter. In actuality, several vague hints will be revealed in this chapter. Anyways, THANKS FOR READING AND REVIEWING! YOU'RE ALL AWESOME!**

"_Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time, we people the void with phantoms."-Guy de Maupassant_

"You must have been _really _tired."

Reid cracked his eyes open and blinked once. "Ugh," he muttered, clasping his hand to his head when he became aware of a splitting headache. It took several more seconds for the person in front of him to come into view.

Once he had finally gained a sense of his surroundings, Reid sat up. From what he could most nearly tell, Tobias was gone, Booker was gone, he was in somebody's basement, it was very dark, and Eva Booker was sitting in front of him with a chess board.

"It's your _move,_" she insisted, after he had been staring at her bewilderedly for several seconds.

"I…" Reid trailed off. "You…you could have given me a concussion!" he snapped. "I can't _believe _this! What are you doing? Why are you helping your brother? Where's Jack? Where are JJ and Henry?"

Eva narrowed her eyes. "That's a lot of questions," she said, "_Zoom._"

"I can't _believe _this," Reid snapped. "What _possible _motivation could you have for helping Booker? Unless you're as psychotic as he is."

"Neither of us are psychotic," Eva said, grimly. "My brother may have made some bad choices, but he's as sane as you and me. _Zoom._" She paused for a moment, then giggled. "_Anyways. _It's your turn."

"No," Reid snapped. "Where are JJ and Henry? Are they alright?"

Eva shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea," she said. "_That _whole side of the situation has gotten quite ugly, if you ask me, and I simply refuse to be involved with it."

"But you're perfectly alright with kidnapping _me,_" Reid snapped.

"_I _just wanted a good game of chess," Eva pouted. "There's no need to be so bad-tempered about it. _Zoom._"

Furiously, Reid moved a pawn forwards two spaces. "Fine," he snapped, accepting the fact that Eva Booker was completely insane, "Every time I make a move, _you _have to answer a question."

Eva frowned. "Well…_alright,_" she said, with a sigh. "But every time _I _make a move, _you _have to answer question." She, too, reached down and moved one of the pawns forwards two spaces. "Since I've already answered _several _of your questions, I think it's my turn," she said.

Reid threw his hands up in the air, unable to believe that he was stuck playing chess with an insane person while he _still _had no idea where Jack, JJ, or Henry were, and no idea what Booker was doing. "Fine," he snapped. "What do you want to know?"

Eva Booker paused for a moment. After a long, drawn out silence, she asked, "What's your favorite color?"

Reid stared at her. "Seriously?" he asked.

Eva just folded her arms and waited.

Reid rolled his eyes. "Green," he said, choosing a non-committal color to avoid further conversation. "My turn." He reached down and moved his bishop to the edge of the board, barely aware of the moves he was making. "Where's Jack?" he asked. "I saw him in the alleyway. I _know _you know where he is."

Eva shrugged. "Well," she said, "He _was _in the alleyway, but I've got no idea what Booker's done with him now. It's absolutely ridiculous, involving children," she added, as an afterthought. "_Zoom. _They have extremely underdeveloped critical thinking skills. I mean, I'm _sure _he's a nice boy and everything, but it doesn't make for a very good game. You know?" She moved her knight, then asked, "What's your favorite ice-cream flavor?"

"Coffee," Reid snapped, then reached down to move again. "What are you two planning?" he asked.

"I've got no idea what _he's _planning," Eva said. "_Zoom. I'm_ planning to finish our chess game, then go get one of those cinnamon-apple muffins from the coffee-shop down the street. I _like _those." She moved again, then asked, "Do _you _want a cinnamon-apple muffin?"

"_No!" _Reid shouted, seized by a desire to overturn the chess board and punch Eva in the face. Instead, he moved his pawn again. "Why are you helping him?" he demanded.

"That wasn't a very good move," Eva commented, raising her eyebrows.

"Who cares?" Reid snapped. "Answer my question."

Eva shook her head angrily. "No," she snapped. She reached across the board to return the pawn to its original position. "We are going to play a _real _chess game," she snapped. "Or I won't answer _anything._"

Reid sprang to his feet, only just then realized his ankle had been handcuffed to one of the pipes. "This is ridiculous," he snapped. "Please, Eva. Tell me where Henry and Jack are. Tell me where _JJ _is. They're my friends. If you let me see them, I'll play a chess game with you."

Eva sighed, then pushed herself to her feet. "They're going to _distract _you," she muttered. "_Zoom._ But you're obviously very upset. So…" She walked across the room, opened the door, then leaned into what appeared to be an adjoining room. "You two can come in," she said.

**O**

"Who's going to tell Will?" Hotch asked grimly.

"I don't know," Morgan said, sighing. "I just told Garcia. She's…" he trailed off. "Anyways," he muttered. "What are you going to do? Rossi and I are flying down in an hour."

"We're pulling into the police station right now," he said. "Booker left another message that Reid needs to decode, and we need him to figure out the next location of the attack."

"Alright," Morgan said. "Have you told him yet?"

"No," Hotch muttered. "I'll talk to you later, Morgan." Hotch stepped out of the car and prepared to enter the police station—only to be confronted with a wide-eyed, frantic looking officer.

"Are you Agent Hotchner?" he asked.

"Yes," Hotch said, "What's the matter?"

"Your partner disappeared," he said. "We aren't sure, but…there's a trail of blood that starts about ten feet away from the station. It looks like he was running from something." He pointed across the parking lot.

"_What?"_ Hotch snapped, pushing past the police officer and running in the indicated direction. "Did you find him?"

"There was a larger pool of blood about a half-mile east of here," the police officer said. "Then the trail goes blank. But we've got CSI people analyzing the scene now, so in a couple of days we should—"

"A couple of _days?" _Hotch snapped. "Reid's _gone_? How am I supposed to find my _son?_"

"W-well," the officer said, "Once we check for fingerprints, we can—"

"Reid was the only one who could decode those messages," Hotch snapped, "The only one who knew where the next _attack_ was going to be. You're telling me he's _gone?_"

"Well, Agent Hotchner, I'm sure we can find—"

"No," Hotch snapped, so consumed by anger and grief and exhaustion that he was barely aware of what he was saying. "This is about the _seventh_ time he's done this. He is _always _getting himself kidnapped—now we'll _never _find Jack, and, and…" he trailed off, shook his head once, then turned away from the police station to face the city. "SPENCER REID!" he shouted. "AS SOON AS WE FIND YOU, YOU ARE _FIRED, _UNDERSTAND ME? _FIRED_!"

"Agent Hotchner," the officer said, his voice rising sharply in alarm, "Maybe you should go inside, and…and lie down for a moment."

"When was the last time you slept?" asked the deputy sympathetically, as he walked up behind him. "Your son is missing. Someone close to you was just killed. You're not in your right mind."

"No," Hotch muttered. "I have to…I _will _find him…" he pushed past the two police officers and ran into the building, then burst into the room where Reid had been working. "He must have left something," he muttered. "There was a whole string of numbers, and we…" he trailed off, then lifted up a piece of paper—and there, in Reid's messy handwriting, had been scrawled two addresses—the one of the last attack, and another one directly underneath it.

"There," Hotch said. "We have to go there. He's going to kill someone, else at _this_ address."

The deputy frowned. "Agent Hotchner," he said, "This address is only two blocks away. I really don't think we should act so rashly—you're probably right, but we have no idea _why _Dr. Reid wrote down this address. He could have wanted to go get _lunch _there, for all we know. I think you should lie down, and wait for the rest of your team to—"

Irritated, Hotch pushed past the officer and hurried back outside. "Quick," he said to the group of surrounding officers. "Let's go. There isn't a lot of time."

"Are you alright?" one officer asked him.

Hotch shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said, shoving the address in the officer's face. "What about _this?" _he demanded. "Do you know where this is?"

The officer paused for a second, then nodded. "Right over there," he said, pointing to a building off in the distance. "It was an old art gallery, but now it's abandoned except for this old lady and her—"

Suddenly, the officer broke off as a loud sound like a canon firing shot through the air—the sky was filled with an orange glow, and the police officers stared at it in disbelief.

The deputy pushed his way through the doors. "What's going on?" he demanded.

Hotch turned to him. "That building," he said. "You know—the one Dr. Reid wrote down? To 'go get lunch at?' Well, it's just exploded." The deputy stared disbelievingly into the distance, then turned to stare at Hotch with his mouth half-open.

Hotch continued to speak. "This unsub will kill us—_all of us—_if we don't get ahead of him. And twice as quickly, now that we've lost Dr. Reid. So," Hotch said, raising his eyebrows, "Ready to listen to me now?"


	20. Chapter 20

**Thanks a million to all readers and reviewers! Sorry that I missed a week in updating—I've been a little busy—but I should be updating next week, like usual. Also, (SPOILER ALERT) I understand this is slightly off topic but I do feel the need to comment on the two most recent Criminal Minds episodes (**_**Zugzwang, Magnum Opus)**_**: Alright, so first of all, I would like to ask the question: **_**WHY? **_**Reid finally meets what is (arguably) the first girlfriend he's ever had…and several minutes after he actually sees her for the first time she gets shot in the head by a random psychotic female stalker-person…at first I thought that Criminal Minds just enjoyed torturing **_**all **_**of the characters, but now I really think that someone on the writing staff has got it in for Reid (not that I can really talk…but **_**still.**_**) Also, am I the only one who didn't feel like the awkward cleaning scene at the end of the most recent episode was really sufficient in terms of emotional closure, considering everything that had happened? **_**…**_**well, anyways, now that I've gotten that off of my chest, let's get on with the actual story…yeah.**

"_Awareness is the enemy of sanity; for once you hear the screaming, it never stops." –Emilie Autumn_

"I want to see my mommy. I want to see my mommy. I want to see my mommy. I want to see my mommy. I want to see my—"

"Shut _up!" _The smaller child winced as he was reprimanded by the larger one—Henry stared at Jack with wide eyes for several shocked moments, before turning towards Reid and bursting into tears.

Jack was already apologizing. "I'm sorry, Henry…" he said, "I was just mad. Mad is all. Not at you. At them. _Promise._" Henry, however, continued to cry.

"She's not coming back," he whimpered at the ground, then turned towards Reid as if begging for a negation. "She's not coming back, is she?"

"I don't know, Henry," Reid muttered. "I don't know anything more than you. They're looking for us, that's all." As much as he wanted to console the child, he honestly _didn't _know if JJ was alright or if she was dead, and was beginning to suspect the latter—despite the little experience he had with children and his overwhelming desire to assure Henry that everything would be alright, he simply couldn't bring himself to lie to his godson. In addition to this, his leg had been throbbing mercilessly for the past hour—he had no idea how long he'd been down here, but it had certainly been long enough for his pain meds to wear off. Reid, who was no stranger to opiate withdrawal, could already feel the dreading migraine coming on, along with the faintest stirrings of nausea.

"When is that lady coming back?" Henry moaned, now turning towards Jack.

"She's a _bad guy, _Henry," Jack explained, rolling his eyes. "You don't _want _her to come back."

"She's nicer than _you,_" Henry snapped. "She brings me _candy._"

"But you wouldn't even _be _her if it weren't for her," Jack explained to him.

"But, she…but, you…you _suck!"_ Henry shouted, with the irrefutable logic of a four-year-old, and turned his back to the older boy and started crying again. Reid desperately wanted to go over to him and hug him—but, even if his leg _hadn't _been chained to a pipe, he would have been in too much pain to move either way.

_I don't deserve to be his godfather, _he thought to himself, bitterly, _If I did, even just a _little _bit, I would know what to say right now. If I _really _did, then I would've stopped that monster while I had a chance…I'm supposed to catch criminals, and I can't even protect my own godson…_

Jack raised his head to stare at Reid. Despite the brave face he appeared to be putting on for Henry, Reid could see that the older child was terrified. Before Reid could say anything, however, Jack started speaking—whether he was speaking to the whole room or Henry or simply to himself, Reid wasn't entirely sure.

"We _will _be okay, though," Jack said, his voice full of a strange, hollow kind of cheerfulness. "Because my dad is looking for us. He's working the case. He's like a superhero, Henry. He catches the bad guys. And he'll keep on looking for us forever and ever, and even if he's gone for days or weeks or months you know that he's going to come back eventually, because even if bad things happen sometimes, he'll never let anything happen to me. He tries really hard, and sometimes people get hurt—even killed—but not me. My dad won't let it. He told me. He always comes back eventually. My dad will find us, Henry. He's working the case. He's _always _working the case…"

Reid simply stared ahead into space, trying to block out the pain, wishing desperately he could offer some kind of solace to Jack and Henry but being unable to provide any.

It seemed like they sat in silence for an eternity before, suddenly, the door in front of them opened—it was Eva again. Despite her ordinarily calm demeanor, she looked uneasy about something.

"You're going to have to come out," she said to Reid. "Lloyd wants to talk to you."

**O**

"I'm sorry, Aaron," Rossi said with a sigh, "I can't make heads nor tails of these numbers. Are you sure Reid didn't write them down anywhere…?"

"No," Hotch snapped. "Nothing. I've looked through all seven-trillion or however many papers he's scribbled things on, but I can't find anything. I suppose there's no _real _need to write things down for Mr. eidetic memory, after all, but it really would be nice if he could have—"

"Aaron," Rossi interrupted, raising his eyebrows. Hotch gritted his teeth in annoyance, expecting another rebuke about how he was talking too quickly or acting too irritable or needed more sleep. Instead, Rossi asked, "Are you okay?"

Hotch sighed, stared at the ground for several moments, then returned his friend's gaze. "I'm sorry, Dave," he said. "But why in the world would I be okay?"

Rossi nodded, conceding, and was about to speak when Morgan suddenly burst into the room.

"The autopsy results came back from the last building that exploding," Morgan said. "The bodies were pretty messed-up, but dental records match with the owners of the building." He placed two files in front of them. "Garcia found them for me. Melinda and Patrick Booker."

Hotch stared. "Relatives…?"

"Aunt and uncle. But it gets weirder—apparently, earlier that day, Melindaspent over a thousand dollars on chemicals that could be used as explosives."

"Booker?" Hotch inquired. "Could he have stolen her credit card?"

Morgan shook his head. "It was a woman," he replied. "It was difficult to see her face, but it was definitely a woman."

"Then maybe she was in on it?" Hotch asked, frowning. "But why kill her?"

Morgan shrugged. "Maybe he didn't need her anymore?"

Hotch sighed. "We have to call Garcia again," he muttered. "See if we can find what else he might have bought."

**O**

"I'm glad I've kept you around, Spencer," Booker said. The pair of them were seated at the table, facing each other. Eva paced back and forth nervously in the corner, biting her lip and muttering _"zoom" _to herself every couple of seconds. "This game is getting better and better."

"What do you want?" Reid demanded.

"_Lloyd,_" Eva hissed, before her brother could respond. "You didn't tell me about this _at all. _I can see _no _logical, tactical reason behind it."

"Not everything needs a tactical reason, Eva," Lloyd said, rolling his eyes—Reid was startled by the change in his tone, as it changed from one of a manipulative psychopath to one of an irritated older brother explaining something obvious to his younger sister.

"There's no _reason_," she muttered. "_Zoom."_

"Doesn't it make you _uncomfortable?_" Booker sneered.

"There's just no _reason,_" she muttered. "It's too easy. Not very _artful, _at all. But it's your decision. _Zoom."_ With that, she turned and exited the room, slamming the door behind her. Relieved of that burden, Booker returned to Reid with a smile.

"Don't mind her," he said. "Her aunt and uncle died a little while ago, and now she knows she won't get money on her birthday anymore." Reid wasn't sure exactly how to respond to that, so he just kept silent and waited.

"Now, I know that we _have _been having fun lately," Booker said, waving his hand as if this were a given. "But it seems to me as if all of your moves have been kind of…well, _forced, _you know. By me. Granted, the Sherlock-Holmes style deductions via LSD-trip were quite interesting, but still…" he trailed off. "I'm going to give you a choice. Two options. Well, three options, really." He smiled at Reid.

Reid glared back. "What are they?" he asked, unblinking.

"Well," he said. "There's two adorable children in there, in case you haven't noticed, who are both in high levels of distress—and I'm slowly coming to realize that it is not at _all _advantageous for me to keep both of them around. So, I'd like you to choose which one for me to get rid of."

Reid stared at him.

"As in, rather, the _bottom-of-the-river _type getting rid of. Excuse my bluntness, but I don't want to be misconstrued. So you have to choose the large one, or the small one."

It took Reid several minutes to find his voice. "What…what's the third option?" he asked.

"Oh, of course, the third option. I've offered this so that we can avoid all of the pleasantries where you refuse to indulge my choice, offer yourself instead, et cetera, et cetera…" he trailed off again, then fixed Reid with a smile. "Either choose one boy, or the other. If you don't choose either of them, then you can take the third option—and I kill them both."

Reid couldn't bring himself to move. He continued to stare at straight ahead—his mind, for once, was unable to form a coherent thought.

Booker stood up. "I'll leave you alone to contemplate your decision properly," he said, with a pleasant smile. "I'll see you in one hour, Spencer. I hope you can make up your mind."


	21. Chapter 21

**Hello, everyone! (Sorry I'm a day late.) This chapter is….dark, to say the least. I hope I don't ruin anyone's day. And even if you think it is the most horrible, depressing thing ever…well, you should still review and tell me so. I truly do love reading all of your comments. And keep in mind—the story isn't over yet!**

"_It is only in our decisions that we are important." – Jean-Peal Sartre _

Reid's brain wasn't working.

He knew that it was his job, as an expert criminal profiler, to be able to think quickly in these types of situations—to be able to outsmart the criminal—but all he could focus on at the moment was the horrible pain in his leg, the cold sweat dripping down his face, and the all-encompassing, mind-numbing horror.

_I'm going through withdrawal, _he thought to himself feverishly. _If I could just think _clearly, _for a moment…_

He pressed his hands to his face.

_Jack or Henry is going to die._

"No," he muttered to himself. "I won't let that happen. They'll be fine. We'll find a way. We _will._"

"Will we?"

Reid wasn't even surprised to hear Tobias' voice—although he hadn't summoned him consciously, it seemed as if his mind was trying to remedy his desperate need for company.

"He wants me to make the decision alone," Reid muttered. "That's why you're here. To help me. Because that's why he put me in here—alone—so that he can torture me for an hour."

"And for the rest of your life after that," Tobias said. "If he kills one of those kids."

Reid shook his head back and forth desperately. "There's no way out," he muttered. "I have to make a choice. But I _can't _make a choice. Of course I can't."

"This is about guilt," Tobias said. "It's a classic moral dilemma. Action versus inaction. If you choose action, then you kill one child. If you choose not to choose, then you kill _two—_but then, it's not really _you _who killed them, is it? It's Booker. If _you _choose, then _you're _the killer."

Reid pressed his hands to his head. "So you're saying," he muttered. "It's not really a choice between one or two lives. It's _really _a choice between saving one life, or feeling guilty for the rest of my life."

Tobias smiled. "And you'll choose guilt," he said. "Just like you did with me. Remember? You chose one to live and one to die. You can choose again."

Reid refused to move his eyes from the floor. "This isn't _like _that," he moaned. Pain seemed to infiltrate every bone in his body. _If only I could think clearly…_

"You can't think your way out of this," Tobias said. "There is no third option. You have to choose one, or the other. Otherwise, they die."

"Why is he doing this?" Reid asked, evading Tobias' question. "Because of the message. He wants to drive me insane. Guilt can drive people insane. He wants to drive me insane—right?"

"I feel like we've surpassed that point by now," Tobias said. "Nothing will ever be the same. It doesn't matter. You have to stop thinking of yourself. You have to choose either Jack or Henry."

Reid ignored him.

"Henry is your godson," Tobias mused. "You have more of a personal connection to him. But Hotch has already lost Haley—losing Jack will push him over the edge.

Reid ignored him.

"Then again," Tobias said, "Hotch has been _awfully _cruel to you these past couple of days. And, if you think about it, Will is in the exact same situation—since it seems unlikely that JJ is still alive. So I think we know what the rational—"

"SHUT UP!" Reid shouted—he was _so_ angry, he was _murderous_, he wanted to kill to Tobias, kill Booker, kill whatever was making his leg hurt and his vision blurry and whatever wasn't permitting him to think clearly—he wanted to escape, he wanted to forget, he wanted to disappear into a world where decisions didn't exist and children didn't die and where he _wasn't _alone in a room, grappling with withdrawal and insanity and trying to decide which child to condemn to death. "This _isn't rational,_" he hissed at Tobias, "_Not everything is rational. _In fact, _NOTHING _is rational!" He paused for a moment, smiled, then laughed, without having the slightest idea of why. "If nothing is rational, I can't make a decision," he muttered. "I'm not rational. Not at all. _I _can't decide. That's Booker. _He's _killing them. Not me. I don't have the _right. _I'm not God, am I? I can't decide who lives or dies. I don't have the _right _to decide."

Tobias was watching him with a condescending, sad kind of pity. "I'm sorry, Spencer," he said. "But you're supposed to protect them. You might not have a right to choose—but do you really have a right _not _to?"

Reid shook his head slowly. "I can't think clearly," he muttered. "My leg hurts."

"You're a genius," Tobias said. "You work for the FBI. You're supposed to protect them. You have a responsibility to act."

Reid shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I can't."

"Can't do what?"

Reid blinked—he had been so immersed in his thoughts that he hadn't even seen Booker enter the room. He stared at the psychopath before him, trying to summon the anger he had felt just a few seconds ago—but he felt nothing but a dead sort of helplessness. "I can't choose," he whispered. "Please don't kill them."

Booker smirked for a moment, then turned towards the door. "Manners only get you so far, Spencer," he said, with a sigh. "But I suppose your choice is clear. It's all for the best, really_—_I don't know why I wanted to keep _any _children around in the first place. They're really completely useless creatures, if you think about it."

Reid felt a pull somewhere deep inside his stomach—he wasn't aware that he had moved, but before he could stop himself he was on his feet and had lunged towards Booker, grasping his arm to prevent him from leaving the room.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Booker said, raising his eyebrows. "Was there something else?"

"Don't kill Henry," Reid whispered, so quietly that it was barely distinguishable.

Booker frowned. "I'm sorry?" he prompted. "I couldn't quite hear you."

"Don't kill Henry," Reid said, louder.

Booker smiled again. "I'm sorry, Spencer," he said, "But you've already _made _your decision—one that I wholeheartedly agree with. You've finally made me see sense. Besides, I've got no _idea _what their names are, anyways, so I wouldn't even have the faintest idea which one was _Henry _in the first—"

"_NO!" _Reid shrieked—he sunk his fingernails into Booker's arm to prevent him from leaving. "Kill Jack," he hissed. "The older one. Jack Hotchner. Kill him instead. Don't kill Henry. Don't kill Henry—_please—_don't kill Henry…"

Booker remained still for a moment, as if contemplating his decision—however, Reid could not miss the undeniable smirk that was spreading across his face. Finally, he sighed.

"Very well, then," he said, smiling at Reid. "As you wish." With that, he freed himself from Reid's grasp and exited the room, slamming the door behind him. Reid turned around, seized by a violent surge of nausea, and collapsed onto his hands and knees—but nothing came up. His stomach was empty. He collapsed onto his side, his hands shaking.

"I made a decision, Tobias," he muttered, in a strange, dead sort of voice that he couldn't quite recognize. "Action is better than inaction. Right? I made the decision."

But there was no answer. When Reid looked up, the room before him was empty. Tobias was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

**So, the first time I posted this chapter it didn't work—so I deleted that chapter and tried again—and when that didn't work, I deleted that one and tried again awhile later. Apparently, there was something wrong with the website, which everyone seemed to have already figured out, but I just kind of expected that it was my own technological malfunction (as I have many of those) and was (for some reason) under the impression that trying again and again would fix the problem (I'm also rather impatient.) Anyways, sorry for all the annoying emails!**

**This chapter was actually much longer than I intended (mostly due to me being snowed in all day long with nothing to do.) I hope you enjoy it, and even if you don't, I would love to hear what you think!**

"_Man is condemned to be free; for once he is cast into the world, he is responsible for everything that he does." – Jean-Paul Sartre_

Hotch hadn't slept in three days.

He rolled over on his side and pulled a pillow over his head.

It was the stupid couch. If he could just get ahold of a nice, comfortable bed, then he was _sure _he'd be able to get some sleep.

_Yes, _a small voice in his head piped up, _But _you're _the one who refused to leave the police station._

He took Reid's geographic profile out of his pocket and frowned once again at the circled area. The police had looked everywhere within a five mile radius, but had come up with nothing suspicious.

He sat up abruptly. "I can't sleep _now," _he muttered to himself."My son is missing. I have find him." He got to his feet confusedly and began pacing around the room. God, he _hated _this room.

"So _this _is the last place Reid was seen," Hotch murmured to himself. "Heaven forbid boy-wonder could've left so much as a _note, _to let all us simpletons know where he was going—" Hotch broke off, then frowned, as he noticed an orange bottle protruding from just behind the couch. He reached down and picked it up—and as he examined it, his confusion slowly turned from disbelief to anger to outright hatred.

It was Reid's oxycodone prescription. And it was almost completely gone.

Hotch poked his head under the couch, just to see if any pills had fallen out—but there was nothing. Reid had been taking at least three times the recommended dose.

"That son-of-a_-bitch_!" Hotch felt the anger explode from his chest before he could stop it—he was on his feet moments later, and threw the bottle against the wall.

Morgan burst into the room. "Hotch?" he asked. "What's wrong? I thought you were asleep."

Hotch rounded on his teammate, seething with rage. He picked the bottle up off the floor and held it in front of Morgan's face. "That stupid, selfish, _son-of-a-bitch _was busy getting high while he was _supposed _to be looking for my son."

Morgan stared at the bottle for several moments, bewildered, then shook his head. "Hotch," he said, "You need to sit down. You don't look so good."

"What time is it?" Hotch snapped. "What are you doing here? Is it morning yet?"

Morgan shook his head slowly. "Hotch," he said, "You've only been in here for an hour. It's five in the afternoon."

"I'm going to find him," Hotch muttered, ignoring Morgan completely. "That goddamn _self-centered bastard—"_

"Hotch," Morgan interrupted, placing his hand firmly on his boss' shoulder. "Listen. It's understandable that you're upset—but for all we know, Reid could have a perfectly reasonable explanation. And I _know _you're completely freaked about Jack, because of what happened to Jessica and Haley—you have a _right _to be—but you've got to keep your head right now. You have to _sleep_. We need you to be in control."

Hotch just stood there, staring at the bottle. Finally, he dropped it onto the ground. "No," he muttered. "_You _don't need me. My _son _needs me." He pushed past Morgan and started towards the door, but Morgan held tightly onto his arm.

"_No," _Morgan said, firmly. "You're staying here, Hotch. Come on, you need to lie down."

Hotch ripped his arm out of Morgan's grasp and glared at his younger colleague. "I _know _what I'm doing, Morgan," he snapped, his voice brimming with anger. After a moment, however, he sighed, and took a deep breath. "Look," he said. "I just need to get some air. I'll be back in ten minutes."

"But—" Morgan began to protest, but it was too late. Hotch turned his back on his friend and walked out of the doors. Once he had lost sight of the police station, he took the geographical profile out of his pocket.

"Alright," Hotch muttered, "Let's see where this takes us."

**O**

It was past dark. Hotch circled the burnt out shell of the building again. His phone started ringing—he considered ignoring it, but eventually sighed, then answered.

"I'm _still _fine, Morgan," Hotch said.

"This is Rossi."

Hotch stopped pacing for a second, frowned, then continued walking.

"Hi Dave."

"Listen, Aaron," Rossi said sternly, "It'll be embarrassing for both of us if I need to send a police patrol out to recollect my own unit chief. So I'm really hoping you'll come to your senses and _get the hell back here _before I have to do that."

"There's no need for that," Hotch snapped, rolling his eyes. "I'm heading back now. I've already started walking. I just—" He broke off suddenly, as something caught his eye. He frowned, then blinked, sure he was mistaken—but, sure enough, the outline of a small woman was beckoning him onwards from across the alleyway.

"Aaron? Are you there?" Rossi demanded.

"Yeah, it's fine—I just saw something—I'll call you back later," Hotch muttered, already walking towards the figure.

"Aaron?" Rossi snapped. "What's going on? Don't hang—" However, Hotch had already closed the phone and was fast approaching the figure.

"Eva?" Hotch whispered in disbelief at what appeared to be Booker's sister. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She was leaning rather casually against the wall, eating what appeared to be some sort of pastry, and waved gleefully at Hotch as he approached her. She extended her arm. "Cinnamon apple muffin?" she asked. "_Zoom._"

"What?" Hotch demanded, too bewildered to articulate the jumble of confusion bouncing around in his head.

"More for me, then," she muttered. "Well, anyways—_zoom. _I've wanted to tell someone about this ever since it started—but all of those other strange policemen just seemed so _untrustworthy—_not to mention _fat, _actually—not that I'm _prejudiced, _or anything, but they just didn't have the right _feel _to them, if you know what I mean—_zoom_—so, anyways_, _when I saw you, I just _knew _I couldn't keep it a secret anymore. _Zoom._"

Hotch stared at her with rising impatience. "Keep _what _a secret?" he snapped.

"Your son is in very great danger, Agent Hotchner," she said, reverting to a wide-eyed, deadly serious demeanor. "He could be killed any minute now. We might already be too late."

"_What?" _Hotch snapped, grabbing onto her arm. "And you've been waiting around all day to tell the police _because they didn't have the right feel to them?"_

"You don't understand, Agent Hotchner," Eva whispered, trying to pull her arm free. "You _can't shout. _And you can't tell anyone else about this. If my brother gets the slightest _hint _that the police are going to catch him, he'll kill _all _of them—Dr. Reid, the small blond boy, _and _your son, as well. _Zoom._" Having unsuccessfully tried to free her arm, she began guiding Hotch down the alleyway. "You have to come with me _right now, _Agent Hotchner," she hissed.

"And why the hell should I trust you?" Hotch asked.

"Because," Eva replied. "_Their _biggest priority is catching my brother. And what's _your _biggest priority, Agent Hotchner?"

He paused for a moment, trying in vain to keep his anger at bay. "Saving my son," he muttered eventually.

"So you have no _reason _to trust me," she said. "But it's not like you've got any other _choice_."

Hotch followed Eva down the alleyway—his phone started buzzing again, but he held down the power button until it turned off. Finally, they came to a stop.

"A dumpster?" Hotch asked, raising his eyebrows.

Eva rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "_Zoom. _Look underneath it."

Hotch got down on his hands and knees and peered underneath the dumpster. "There's nothing here," he snapped, growing more and more irritated by the minute. "Alright, Eva. Let's just get you to the police sta—" he stopped talking suddenly as he felt a needle prick the back of his neck.

Panicking, he dug his hand into his pocket and whipped out his phone. "What are you _doing?_" he snapped, holding down the power button and waiting for it to turn on. "What did you just do to me?"

Eva took a step backwards with her hand over her mouth, as if trying to conceal her laughter. "I'm sorry, Agent Hotchner," she giggled. "I really _do _want to help you. But I _had _to do it—it makes for a much better game. _Zoom._"

Hotch could already feel his vision growing blurry. He just stared at Eva in disbelief, anger at his own stupidity overwhelming any fury he could have mustered up towards her.

"It's alright, Agent Hotchner," she said, as he collapsed onto the ground. "_Zoom. _We're going to have lots of fun. _Really."_

**O**

When Hotch woke up, he was staring at Officer Lloyd Booker.

Hotch blinked once, then frowned—he had been busy, over the past few weeks, constructing an image of Booker in his mind—to be some fierce, grotesque, animalistic enemy—however, in reality, Booker looked no different than when Hotch had known him as a police officer. Like his sister, he was rather thin and small, and even had a good-natured expression on his face. The only noticeable difference was that he looked much, much happier.

"Hello, Agent Hotchner," Booker said. "It's nice to meet you—well, _again, _I suppose. I guess you should be thankful, at least, that you got a bit of rest—you look pretty tired to me."

The room they were in seemed surprisingly comfortable—there was no carpet on the cement floor, and it _was _rather small, but there was a refrigerator in a corner, a small table, and an older looking television in the center of the room.

"That's what _I _thought." Hotch's eyes shot towards the corner, where Eva was sitting Indian-style and eating the same muffin she had been in the alleyway. "You were _awfully _easy to fool, Agent Hotchner. I don't think your critical thinking skills were really up to—"

"Where's my son?" Hotch demanded. He tried to move his hands to check his pocket for his phone—but it appeared that someone had clumsily ductaped his hands to the arms of the chair he was sitting in. "Where _is _he?" he demanded.

"Well, Agent Hotchner," Booker said, "All in due time. First, I would like to show you something." Without further ado, he wheeled the television closer to Hotch and hit play, before retreating to the corner. Hotch, who was growing more and more annoyed by the second, attempted to free himself from the duct tape.

"You people think this is all a game," he spat. "But it's _not _a game, and you're both going to _jail_. Show me where my son is, and you _might _not get the death sentence." He stared at both of them, seething—but they were completely ignoring him, with their eyes fixed on the television. "Are you even _listening _to—"

"_This isn't _like _that."_

Hotch frowned, then instantly whipped his head towards the television. "Reid?" he muttered, upon recognizing the familiar voice. Sure enough, Reid was pacing back and forth in what appeared to be a small, empty room. He looked absolutely horrible—his face chalk white, his forehead dripping with sweat, and even from this distance Hotch could tell that his hands were shaking. He paced back and forth distractedly, wringing his hands together, his eyes flicking back and forth across the room.

"_Why is he doing this?" _Reid muttered. _"Because of the message. He wants to drive me insane. Guilt can drive people insane. He wants to drive me insane—right?"_ There was another long silence as Reid stood very still, staring at the floor, without moving—then suddenly, without warning, he flew into a rage.

"_SHUT UP!" _he shouted—to whom he was talking, Hotch had no idea. "This _isn't_ _rational. Not everything is rational. In fact, NOTHING is rational!" _There was another brief silence, where Reid sank to the ground—he smiled for a second, and laughed, in case his insanity had been unconfirmed—then lapsed into anger again, and his muttering became incomprehensible. As concerned as he was for his son, Hotch couldn't help but feel a violent wave of sympathy for his young colleague.

"What the hell did you do to him?" he snapped at Booker, once again straining to free himself from the duct tape.

"I see what you mean," Booker said. "This is getting rather boring. Let's move ahead, to the important part." The videotape skipped ahead quickly for several moments—until, finally, Booker entered the room, and he stood there speaking to Reid. However, just as he hit play, Hotch saw Reid lunge at Booker, latching onto his arm. He murmured something, but Hotch couldn't hear it.

"_I'm sorry," _Booker said. _"I couldn't quite hear you."_

Reid repeated the previous statement, which Hotch still couldn't hear. Booker replied to him in a soft voice, but it was still not quite loud enough for Hotch to make out—he leaned in closer to the screen, trying to understand what they were saying.

Suddenly, Reid started screaming. _"NO!" _he shrieked. _"Kill Jack. The older one. Jack Hotchner. Kill him instead. Don't kill Henry—_please—_don't kill Henry…"_

Hotch simply stared straight ahead, transfixed by anger and terror and horrible understanding. Booker moved forwards and stopped the video—but Hotch couldn't move his eyes from the screen.

"Well, Agent Hotchner," Booker said cheerfully. "I was _going _to follow my friend Spencer's advice—until my sister brought you here. You've really got a _lot _to thank her for, if you think about it. And I have to give credit where credit is due—the game will be _much _more fun this way."

Hotch finally mustered the strength to open his mouth. "Where's my son?" he asked softly, his voice laden with the dangerous anger he had only felt once before in his life.

"He's alive," Booker said. "As of right now. I offered Spencer a choice—and I am assuming that, by this point, you have deduced what that choice was—as well as Spencer's resulting decision." Hotch felt rage boiling up in his veins like molten lava—his vision turned the strangest shade of red as he stared at the image of Reid on the screen.

"And, so," Booker said, "I believe it is only fair to allow you to overturn his decision—if you wish. If you should choose to save _your _son, instead of the other one, Agent Hotchner, then I will surely take your decision into account."

Hotch didn't even have to think—his mind was solely governed by the strange, animalistic instinct that was driven to protect his son and kill anything else that might get in his way. "Yes," he whispered. "I want to overturn it."

Hotch did not miss the smile that was exchanged between Booker and his sister. "It seems to me, Agent Hotchner," Booker continued, "That we have reached an impasse."

Hotch wrenched his head away from the screen for the first time. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

Booker smiled, turning the remote control over and over in his hands. "What I mean," he said, "Is that the game is about to get _very _interesting, indeed."


	23. Chapter 23

**Thanks a TON for reading and reviewing! I love reading your feedback (I realize I say this every time, but it is always incredibly true. So thanks!) I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

"_We humans do, when the cause is sufficient, spend our lives. We throw ourselves onto the grenade to save our buddies in the foxhole. We rise out of the trenches and chare the entrenched enemy and die like maggots under a blowtorch. We strap bombs on our bodies and blow ourselves up in the midst of our enemies. We are, when the cause is sufficient, insane." –Orson Scott Card_

"Ready?"

Rossi glanced over at Morgan, who was waiting for him at the end of the alleyway. He sighed, then walked over towards his coworker. "This one's empty, too," he said, frowning. "By the way—remind me to kill Aaron as soon as I find him."

Morgan gave a half-hearted chuckle as Rossi fell into step beside him. "First JJ," he muttered, "And now we've got Reid and Hotch missing—not to mention the fact that we _still _haven't found Jack and Henry, and—"

"Thanks," Rossi said, as the two of the approached the police car, "That was very encouraging."

"How can you be so calm right now?" Morgan snapped.

Rossi sighed. "I'm not," he said. "But letting our emotions run away with us isn't going to help anyone. That was Hotch's mistake." He opened the car door and stepped in. "Let's go get lunch," he said to Morgan.

"But we could always look again, Rossi—we might have missed—"

"They're already found Hotch's phone, Morgan," Rossi said. "They're unlikely to find much else. Besides, you haven't eaten since yesterday. Unless you're hoping to appease the gods by fasting, which is actually not as effective as it would seem—"

"Fine, I'm going," Morgan interrupted. He rolled his eyes, cracked a brief smile, then walked around to the other side of the car. Just as he was opening the car door, however, a police officer came running towards them.

"Is something wrong?" Rossi demanded. "Was there another attack?"

The officer shook his head. "No," he said. "But I think we've found something."

**O**

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._

There were too many of them now. Reid pressed his hands against his eyes, too frightened to look up. "It's not real," he muttered. "Go away. It's not real."

He could hear Tobias' voice inches from his face. "You have to listen to us, Spencer," he whispered.

Reid ignored him. Moments later, he heard his own voice, despite keeping his mouth firmly closed. "We made the right choice," the voice told him. "Action versus inaction. We made the right choice." Reid finally forced himself to raise his eyes for a moment, only to be confronted with an identical version of himself, standing several feet closer than Tobias.

He let out a half-panicked scream and scrambled away from the figure. It laughed.

"What's wrong?" the figure asked. "Oh, I see. You _are _afraid of yourself."

"Go away," Reid hissed, his gaze flickering from Tobias to himself and then back to Tobias again.

"We've lived in a fantasy world for too long," Tobias said. Reid watching in transfixed horror as the vague, shadowy images of what had previously been disembodied voices began to come into view and approach him. "We can't go back now."

"I want to go back," Reid whispered. "I want to go back. I'm sorry."

"We _all _want to go back." This figure stepped forwards and stood beside his own.

"JJ?" Reid mumbled. "I saved Henry…"

She crouched beside him. "Really?" she asked. "You saved him? Where is he?"

Reid just stared at her. He didn't have an answer. "Am I dreaming?" he asked.

Tobias laughed again. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?" he asked. "If this were all a dream. Maybe it _is. _So what? What difference does it make?"

"It's not real," Reid gasped, staring at Tobias for some sort of consolation. "_None _of this is real."

"Your decision was real," Tobias said. Reid opened his mouth to respond, but another figure pushed its way to the front, weaving in between the legs of the taller ones.

"Where's my daddy, Dr. Reid?" the child demanded. "Where is he?"

Reid instantly began to panic. "Jack," he gasped. "What—what are you doing—are you _dead_?" he instantly leapt to his feet and backed away from the child, horrified. He looked at the faces around him. "You're all dead," he whispered. "Please don't be dead, Jack—don't be dead—"

"But that's what you _wanted, _Dr. Reid," Jack said, his voice placidly cool and accusing and his childish voice not sounding in the least like a child's. "Isn't it?"

"No," Reid gasped. "I didn't want—I'm so sorry—"

Suddenly, Reid was aware of a door opening. The figures in the room scrambled into the corners—their faces were still too dark to make out—but Reid _was _aware of a new figure in the room.

"Look, everybody!" he shouted, his voice coming out high-pitched and terrified. "Hotch is dead, too!"

Hotch stared at him for several moments, then looked around the room in confusion. "Reid," he said, "There's nobody here."

"Did you _hear _that?" Reid snapped, turning towards Tobias. "I _told _you there was nobody here."

"Do I _look _like nobody?" Tobias snapped.

"Do _they _look like nobody?" Reid's doppelganger asked, pointing towards where Jack and JJ were standing. "Are _we _nobody?"

Reid stared at himself for several more moments. "Am I dead?" he muttered bemusedly. It was all incredibly confusing.

"Reid," Hotch said, coming still closer. "You have to change your decision. You have to choose Henry instead. Booker said…he said that Henry was too young to keep around anymore. He was annoying. He's going to get rid of him anyways. I know it's horrible, Reid, and I'm sorry, but if you change your decision, he _might_ save Jack."

"He's lying," Tobias hissed.

"He's telling the _truth!"_ Jack shouted, now standing right beside Reid. "_Please don't kill me, Dr. Reid."_ "No," Reid whispered. "You're lying. I _know _you're lying. That doesn't make any sense."

"You have to trust me," Hotch said. "Saving Jack is the only way. _I'll _make the decision for you. It's not yours anymore! _I'm _killing Henry! It's not your fault if Henry dies! But if _Jack _dies…"

"Spence," JJ said, "Where's Henry? Why aren't you protecting him? You're his _godfather, _Spence…"

"Don't kill me, Dr. Reid," Jack sobbed, his eyes welling up with tears. _"Please don't kill me."_

"But you're already dead," Reid whispered. "We're all already dead."

"We _aren't _dead!" Hotch growled, grabbing onto his shirt. Reid stared, at the hand, transfixed.

"How are you doing that?" he whispered. "You…none of you are real…"

"_I'm _real," Hotch growled. "He probably poisoned you again, Reid. That's why you're hallucinating."

Reid shook his head. "Impossible," he muttered. "It's all impossible…"

"Listen to me," Hotch said. "I'll get us out of this. Just change your decision. I promise."

Reid stood there, pinned against the wall, then looked across at Tobias. He shook his head slowly. "Action versus inaction," he whispered.

Reid returned Hotch's gaze. "No," he whispered. "I won't do it."

Letting out a cry of fury, Hotch slammed Reid against the wall, then turned and stormed towards the door. He paused just before leaving, and eyed Reid with a look that almost seemed as remorseful as it was angry. "You're making me do this," he spat, before turning around and slamming the door shut behind him. Reid stared up at Tobias with wide eyes.

"Was that real?" he asked.

Tobias laughed. "Of course not," he said. _"None _of this is real."

Reid felt the back of his head, where a large, painful bruise was already forming. "Oh," he said. "That's good."


	24. Chapter 24

**THANKS FOR READING AND REVIEWING! :D It is entirely possible that you will all want to kill me as a result of the cliffhanger at the end of the chapter…but just know that I am very sorry for any psychological trauma it causes you, (or any psychological trauma that this story has caused you, in general…or any of my other stories, for that matter…but I digress.) So, um…I hope you like it?**

"_Perhaps I know best why it is man alone who laughs; he alone suffers so deeply that he had to invent laughter." –Friedrich Nietzsche_

"I've already told you," Hotch hissed. He was leaning against the wall, still panting with anger from his conversation with Reid. Although he wouldn't have changed his decision for anything, he couldn't dispel the horrible feeling of guilt welling up inside his stomach. He couldn't even look Booker in the eyes.

"Oh, I know," Booker said. Despite the fact that his eyes were averted, Hotch could hear the smile in his voice. "But I'm afraid you'll find it a bit more difficult to follow through with your decision than you previously imagined."

Hotch finally raised his head to meet Booker's eyes. "Have you been listening?" he spat. "I've already followed through with it. You can do whatever you want to Henry or Reid. I've made my decision. What else do you want?"

Booker smiled. "Words are different than actions, Agent Hotchner," he said. "Now, you must remember—I'm doing this solely with _your _benefit in mind. I want to make sure you appreciate what your decision entails."

Hotch stared at him. "What are you talking about?" he demanded. Moments later, he heard a doorknob turn. Eva Booker entered, looking rather unhappy.

"Is it ready?" Booker asked her, his eyes brimming with excitement.

"This is a completely unnecessary part of the game, Lloyd," Eva muttered. "_Zoom. _He's already made his decision."

"Is it _ready?_" he demanded again, his voice rising with agitation.

"I'm pretty sure the smart one has completely lost his mind," she said, her voice jumping up several octaves. "Which completely destroys the point. He's supposed to be objectively aware of the—"

"_Is it ready?" _Booker snarled, throwing his arms into the air. Eva jumped a little bit at the strident tone of his voice, then took a step back and folded her arms.

"Yes," she said, rather peevishly. "Although this whole _thing _is reminding me why I _dislike _playing games with _you._"

"This whole thing was your _idea_," Booker snapped, trying to push past her into the next room.

"What about killing our aunt and uncle?" Eva snapped, stepping in front of him to block his entrance. "_That _was never part of the plan. _Zoom._"

"What did you expect me to do?" Booker demanded. "They could have given our spot away to the police."

"But you didn't _have_ to kill them. They didn't _know _anything. Besides, remember all those nice gifts she got me for—"

"And _you _didn't have to kill our parents," Booker snapped. Hotch massaged his head in disbelief, utterly bewildered yet unwilling to interrupt, as he was fostering a very small hope that the pair would turn on each other and allow him a chance to escape. "But _what _do you know, little miss bitch doesn't get enough attention and the next thing you know—"

"Well _you're _just jealous that _I _did it first, you _stupid_, _ugly_, _faggot!"_ Hotch stared with an open mouth as Eva Booker—who could not have weighed more than ninety-five pounds—took a step forwards, spat in her brother's face, then kneed him in the stomach, causing him to collapse onto the ground. _"Zoom," _she muttered, one last time, then stalked out of the room, leaving Lloyd Booker crouched on the floor, doubled over in pain. Hotch eyed the open door and took a hesitant step forwards.

"_Don't _even think about it!" In a flash, Booker whipped his gun out, pointing it directly at Hotch's head. "One move and I'll kill you and all your fucking kids," he panted, still clutching his stomach. He was clearly mortified, and for once Hotch thought he saw his composure slipping. "It's all set up," he muttered, more to himself than to Hotch. "She's _going_ to let me have this.

Hotch was staring at him. "That's it, isn't it?" he asked suddenly. Booker ignored him as he scrambled to his feet, a look of utter loathing on his face. "_She _planned all of this. It's her game, but she's letting _you_ take the fall."

"What?" Booker hissed, gritting his teeth angrily. "You're a fucking idiot."

"You just _said_ it was her idea," Hotch said, raising his eyebrows. Despite his mental and physical exhaustion, he could feel his profiling skills stirring to life. "And you just said, 'she's to _let me have this.' _Think about it, Lloyd. She lets you _think _you're in charge, but then as soon as things start to get good she's out here taking control."

"No," Booker growled. "This is _mine. _I'm in control."

"You've always liked violence," Hotch said, his mind whirring with activity. "But you knew you could never pull this off by yourself. She was behind _all _of it, wasn't she? The messages. The mind games. But she got _you _to do all the dirty work."

"_NO!" _Booker snapped, now rounding on Hotch. "It was my idea to take the kids," he growled. "She wanted to leave them alone. Kill the women, leave the kids. It was _my_ idea to take them. And I'm the one who poisoned the genius. It's the whole game. The _whole _thing."

Hotch took a step back. Despite the fact that Booker was angry, it was clear that he was no longer control of the conversation. "But it was her idea to target the FBI," Hotch said. "Her idea to let Reid live. To kidnap him again. To get me here. Reid and I are interesting. She doesn't want children because she doesn't find them interesting—doesn't find their _minds _interesting. She _wants _you to kill them."

"_No," _Booker hissed. "This is _my _game. She—she doesn't want to hurt kids. She doesn't have it in her."

"Because she thinks she's above it," Hotch said. "It's not that difficult to kill children, Lloyd. And she won't—why not? Because she thinks she's better than you."

Booker stared at him.

"She's gotten you to do all the dirty work," Hotch repeated silkily. "After this is all over—and Reid and I and however many other people and children are dead—_you_ are going to go to jail and _you _are going to get the death penalty. And she is going to get off free—because no one will live to tell what she's done. Except for you, perhaps—but who will believe _you?_"

Booker's eyes had glazed over, as if he were thinking hard about something.

"Don't let her win the game, Lloyd," Hotch said, refusing to remove his gaze from Booker's face. "Don't let yourself be a pawn."

At these words, Booker snapped back to reality. He fixed his eyes on Hotch's face—and then, slowly, one of the most eerily terrifying smiles Hotch had ever seen crept onto his face.

"You might be right," he said softly, still smiling. "But it doesn't matter. This part of the game—_this —_right here—" he reached out and put his hand on Hotch's shoulder. "This is _art. _And it's _mine._" He placed his hand on the back of Hotch's neck and pushed him forwards into the next room.

"I'm not the pawn," he whispered as he closed the door. "_You _are."

Hotch turned around slowly—the room was dark, but he was vaguely aware of the sound of breathing coming from the corner. He frowned, his eyes trying to adjust to the light. He saw the faint outline of a child sitting several feet away.

"Jack?" he gasped, his heart swelling with hope—but even as he said the words, he knew it wasn't his son. The figure was much too small. As he approached the child, he felt a growing sense of dread and certainty flood into his stomach. He crouched down beside the figure.

"Henry?" he whispered.

And then, suddenly, the room was flooded with light. Hotch let out a cry of pain, scrambling backwards and shielding his eyes.

"It's too _bright, _Tobias! I can't see!" Although Hotch was blinded as well, he could hear an incredibly familiar voice coming from the opposite side of the room. As Hotch's eyes adjusted to the light, his eyes fell on a white line that divided the room in half. On the opposite side, Hotch saw Reid standing with his hand shielding his eyes, staring up at the ceiling—and, beside him, looking incredibly lost and terrified and confused, stood his son.

"_JACK!" _Hotch shouted, feeling every shred of anger and panic and fear and sorrow that he had experienced during the course of the past few weeks flood through him and propel him onwards towards his son. Before he could take more than a step, however, he heard a voice from above him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Agent Hotchner." Hotch stopped short and stared up at the direction of the voice—Booker was standing up above them, looking down from what appeared to be rafters that ran all around the edges of the room. Hotch wondered briefly where the hell they were before Booker interrupted his train of thought by speaking again.

"Now, my friends, this is going to be a _wonderful _game, indeed!" Booker shouted, opening his arms as if presenting a circus act to a large audience. The embarrassment he had suffered at the hands of his sister mere moments before seemed to have vanished completely.

"I know you're excited to get started," Booker said, now speaking directly to Hotch. "We _all _are. But I need your attention for a few more moments—you must listen to the rules first." He cleared his throat. "Are you _listening, _Dr. Reid?"

Reid, unfortunately, did not appear to be listening at all. He had his arms folded and was staring at the ground with an expression of great concentration on his face—however, at Booker's words, he slowly raised his head and stared at Booker with haunted eyes.

"Pawns always die in the end," he said, so softly that his voice was barely audible. "Action versus inaction. They _always _have to die."

"Moving along," Booker said, clasping his hands together. "Over the course of the past two days, you have both been faced with the same two options—and your decisions have, unfortunately, been in direct conflict with each other. This game offers you the chance to fulfill these decisions yourselves." With a sinking, horrible feeling in his stomach, Hotch's eyes wandered back to the corner where Henry was sitting—beside him lay a lead pipe.

"No," Hotch whispered, taking a step away from it.

"Pay _attention,_ Agent Hotchner," Booker snapped, looking even more annoyed this time. "These are the rules. You have exactly thirty minutes to carry out your decision. If, by the end of the thirty minutes, neither decision has been carried out, then you will all receive bullets to the head." He raised his gun in the air as if to emphasize his point, smiling politely at the onlookers as if pleased with himself for the clarity of his instructions.

Jack, who had been looking extremely confused up until this point, now whipped his head around towards his father and stared at him with wide eyes. Hotch started to walk forwards towards his son again, only to be sharply rebuked by Booker.

"_If_, at any time, anyone crosses the white line, you will _also_ all receive bullets to the head. There are no more compromises. Either carry out your decision, or the game is over."

"People can die of mere imagination," Reid muttered, interrupting Booker's speech. "Murder will out, this my conclusion. The reason for living is to stay dead a long time." He paused for another long moment, then said, "I'm glad this isn't real, Tobias. Pawns always die at the end."

A loud, bellowing laugh came from up above in the rafters. "You should listen to him, Agent Hotchner," Booker said, smiling. "If none of this were real, it would make your decision much easier. Wouldn't it?"

Hotch just stared at Booker, too horrified and angry and sick to implement any sort of response. Somewhere off to his right, Hotch was vaguely aware that Henry had started to cry.

"All players take your positions," Booker said, his grin growing wider and wider. "You have thirty minutes. The game starts now."


	25. Chapter 25

**Hey everyone! Sorry I didn't post earlier, but I didn't have time to write yesterday and this chapter took me **_**way **_**longer to write than I thought it would. There will be either one or two chapters left after this one. This is definitely the longest chapter I've written so far, and it's probably the most emotionally charged chapter of the story, as well (I'm not always the best at writing emotions, **_**in case you haven't noticed, **_**but I did enjoy writing this chapter.) As always, I would like to thank anyone who gave me feedback on the last chapter. I love reading your comments (even if it's to tell me that I am unnecessarily cruel and evil because, well…I am.) **

**ZOOM.**

"_We can spend our whole lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it's our job to invent something better." – Chuck Palahniuk_

"You have thirty minutes. The game starts now."

The whole room was cold. Much, much too cold. The sweating wasn't helping. Reid had no idea why he was sweating and shivering at the same time.

"There's something wrong with you," Tobias whispered to him. "Very, very wrong." The others were talking, too—JJ was talking and Jack was talking and Hotch was talking, talking, talking—but Tobias was the only important one. He was mean, and he was a liar, but he was the only one that spoke sense.

"I want to wake up," Reid whispered to Tobias.

"We all want to wake up," Tobias replied.

Reid closed his eyes tight. He thought back to his childhood nightmares—he would be dreaming of something menacing, something inescapable, some haunting ghoulish creature that was always following, always coming closer but never quite arriving, it was always the chase, the feeling of breath on his neck, the fear, the fear, _they can smell your fear_, and he would close his eyes and wake up in the real world, but always was the feeling of closeness, of pursuit, of the demons that haunted his mother and were always creeping closer to him, the scent of evil and the scent of death and the horrible scent of insanity…

"Why aren't I waking up," Reid whispered, less of a question and more of a plea. "_Why can't I wake up, Tobias…_"

He felt the soft air of breath on his neck. "There is no real and unreal anymore," Tobias whispered. "Fantasy is reality. Reality is fantasy. It doesn't matter. You can't wake up."

Reid opened his eyes, yet another feeling of nausea coursing through his stomach. All of the figures save Tobias had disappeared. He turned around—Hotch was standing at the very edge of the white line. He was talking to Jack.

"Are they real?" Reid whispered to Tobias.

"We're all real," Tobias replied. "None of us are real. It doesn't matter."

Reid wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "What do I have to do?" he whispered.

Tobias didn't answer him. He didn't seem to have an answer.

Reid took a step closer to him. "Logic isn't logical anymore," he said.

Tobias sighed. "Then what is?"

Reid looked away. "Fear," he whispered.

"Is it?"

Reid didn't answer.

"You aren't insane yet," Tobias said. "Deep down—underneath the drugs and the withdrawal and the pain and the hallucinations and the exhaustion—you know what's real and isn't real. But once you renounce logic, you _will _be insane. Insanity means allowing innocent people to die—insanity is renouncing logic in favor of fear."

Reid still didn't look at Tobias. "Then I _am_ insane," he said.

"Are you?"

Reid didn't look at him.

"Maybe the logical decision is the wrong decision," Tobias said, refuting his earlier point. "Maybe the logical decision is illogical in the long run. You don't deserve another round in this game. Nobody does. Not you. Not Jack. Not Hotch. Not Henry."

Reid turned his head ever so slightly towards Tobias. He gave him a small smile. "I'm sorry you're not real," he said. "I'm wish I wasn't insane. But I _have _tobe. So I'm sorry."

Tobias eyed him rather somberly. "Me, too," he said.

**O**

"It's not much," the sheriff said, "But it's a clue. Back during the Cold War, they built fallout shelters all over the city—most of them have been decommissioned, but your strange technical analyst employee—"

"Garcia," Morgan interrupted automatically. The sheriff gave him an irritated look.

"Yes, her—she found evidence of an abandoned fallout shelter underneath—get this—the art gallery owned by Lloyd Booker's aunt and uncle. But there's very little information about what exactly is down there—it could give him access to the whole goddamn sewer system, for all we know—"

"What are we waiting for?" Morgan snapped, jumping to his feet. "Let's go!"

"Wait!" Morgan was forced to stop short as the sheriff reached out and put his arm on his shoulder.

"What?" Morgan demanded.

"Here's the thing," the sheriff said. "Your whiz kid got the address of the art gallery from a string of numbers _sent to him by the killer. _A day later, the place blows up. If we had gotten there sooner—like that son-of-a-bitch had planned—we would all be dead."

Morgan gritted his teeth. "Yes, sheriff," he said, "But _he's already blown it up. _The information about the bomb shelter came to us from _Garcia, _not from Booker. The sooner we get down there, the sooner we find him."

"And we will," the sheriff said. "We're assembling a task force right now to investigate the area."

"A _task force?_" Morgan snapped. "How about a _SWAT_ team? And how about you _finish _assembling it and get the hell down there before—"

"Agent Morgan," the sheriff interrupted. "Excuse my bluntness, but three of your agents have managed to get themselves kidnapped or killed by this man. I'm sorry if I'm not so anxious for my officers to share their fate."

Morgan clenched his fists together. "What are you implying, officer?" he asked the sheriff. "I don't see any of _your_ guys running out to save the day—"

"Which is exactly why they're all still alive," the sheriff said stiffly. "Listen, Agent Morgan. I'm not questioning your team's abilities. Booker managed to take out an entire task force in one strike. I'm just saying—for _this _case—you've all let your emotions cloud your professional judgment. If you weren't so familiar with this case, I would ask you to be taken off of it. Not for my sake—but for your own."

Morgan took a deep breath. "Hotch's son was taken—"

"I know," the sheriff said. "Your family members and coworkers have been taken and killed by this man. You are no longer objective. You can offer you insights all you want, Agent Morgan, but I make the final call. We are going to do this responsibly."

Although Morgan knew the sheriff's reluctance wasn't entirely unwarranted, he could barely restrain himself from reaching across the table to strangle the older man. Morgan took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then said, "I understand what you're saying, sheriff. But we can't afford Booker any leeway if we want to get any of the victims out alive. We have to—"

"Excuse me?"

Morgan whipped around as one of the young assistants poked his head into the room, interrupting the conversation.

"This is a private discussion," the sheriff said, eyeing the assistant angrily.

"Yes, sir," the assistant replied. "I'm sorry. But there's a young lady here. She says she needs to talk to Agent Morgan immediately."

Morgan frowned to himself, confused, as the assistant stepped aside and a small woman with light brown hair came into view. "Hello," she said. "Are one of you Agent Morgan? _Zoom._"

Morgan frowned at the strange girl. "Yes," he said. "What do you want?"

She cleared her throat. "I…" she trailed off, looking too frightened to continue, then started to speak again. "I'm, um…my name is Eva Booker. I'm…Lloyd's sister."

Morgan blinked at her, astonished. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought Hotch already interviewed you."

Suddenly, the young lady burst into tears. "I'm s-sorry," she sobbed. "But I was just sitting in my kitchen, and, and, I was supposed to start classes that morning, and I saw on the news, about Lloyd, and taking that child, and I just…" she trailed off, took a few deep breaths, and then started sobbing again.

"Sit down, Miss Booker," the sheriff said immediately, offering her his chair. "How did you get here?"

"I d-drove down," she sobbed. "Early this morning. I j-just—_zoom_—I just got in the c-car and started driving and I thought, I thought, there had to b-be something I could do, t-to help, help f-find him, because he's doing such awful things a-and…" she immediately started crying again, her small shoulders shaking. "And he's my brother and I should've known a-and I should've stopped him and he sh-should've known b-better than to do all those t-terrible things, and now j-just look at what happened to my aunt and uncle and I know he's b-behind it, and I j-just thought I should c-come down, and, and—"

"Calm down," Morgan said, hesitantly putting his arm around her shoulders. "It's alright. It's not your fault. We're looking for your brother, alright?"

She turned to him, her large eyes glistening with tears. "You're going to k-kill him," she whispered. "Aren't you? _Zoom._"

Morgan took hold of her hand, which was shaking vigorously. "We have to catch him," he said. "He's killed a lot of people, Eva."

"I'm s-sure that, that what's h-happened, is he went into one of those, y-_you_ know, dissociative states, a-a-and, he just d-doesn't know wh-what he's d-doing, that's all—it h-happens all the t-time—_zoom—_s-so if you could p-please make sure not to hurt him—"

"We'll try," Morgan said, unwilling to admit to the distraught young woman that her brother was, in all likelihood, a psychopath who knew exactly what he was doing and that most of the officers would not miss the opportunity to shoot him on sight.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" the sheriff asked her. "Have you been driving all day?"

"I j-just drove right here," she whispered.

"Do you have any place to stay?" he asked. Morgan shot the sheriff an irritated look. Although he, too, felt rather bad for Eva, they didn't have time to console the hysterical sister of a psychopath.

"I have a f-friend," she whispered, "_Zoom."_

The sheriff frowned at her. "Why are you saying that?" he asked.

She swallowed nervously, then licked her lips. "S-saying what?"

"'Zoom.'"

She stared at him confusedly. "I n-never say _'_zoom,'" she said, frowning. "Why would I say 'zoom?' _Zoom._"

Morgan and the sheriff exchanged looks. "I think you need to lie down, miss," the sheriff said. "You look very unwell."

"N-no!" Eva exclaimed, pushing herself to her feet. "I c-came all the way down here—I w-want to _help,_" she insisted, clinging onto the sheriff's sleeve.

The sheriff gently extracted his arm from her grasp. "Alright," he said. "But if you could just lie—"

"There was a b-bomb shelter," she said, her eyes wide. "Under my aunt and uncle's house. Lloyd and I used to p-play down there whenever we could g-get away with it. Nobody knew about it but us, a-and my aunt and uncle—he m-might be down there now, and, and, I j-just had to t-tell you b-because, because…" she trailed off. "A-and I had to t-tell you n-not to hurt him, because, because, he's not himself, I'm s-sure, _zoom, _we l-learned all about it in my psychology class, he j-just went into a dissociative state, a-and—"

"Alright," the sheriff said, cutting into her rambling. "Thank you, Eva. You've been very helpful. We're going to get back to the case, now, but in the meantime, is there anyone you can call to come pick you up?"

Eva swallowed nervously, then nodded. "There's my f-friend," she muttered. "_Zoom. _She said she could c-come get me—"

"Give her a call, then," the sheriff said, already ushering the hysterical girl back towards the door. "Mr. Henderson—the man you came in with—will show you somewhere you can sit down."

Eva took a deep breath, then nodded solemnly for a few seconds. "Thank you for your help," she whispered. "_Zoom._ I'm sorry I came down here and b-bothered everyone, b-but I –"

"Sheriff!" Eva was nearly knocked over as a police officer burst into the room. The officer was panting. "We sent Cormac and McCarthy to investigate the bomb shelter—but there's smoke coming from down there."

The sheriff sprang to his feet. "Smoke? What do you mean?"

The younger officer wiped sweat from his brow. He was still panting. "We called a fire squad in," he said. "It's almost like someone set the fire just before we got there." He shook his head. "I hope there isn't anyone down there," he said. "Because I don't know how they're going to get out. We certainly can't send anyone in."

Involuntarily, Morgan's gaze flickered towards Eva, anxiously preparing for another meltdown—but for the strangest reason, she didn't look surprised or even upset. In fact, her face showed no emotion at all, until she caught him staring at her out of the corner of her eye.

"What does that mean, Agent Morgan?" she asked, her voice laden with fear. "Does that mean I was right? _Zoom._" Despite the fear, however, Morgan couldn't dispel the feeling that her eyes were burning with some inexplicable kind of satisfaction—as if she could barely conceal the fact that she was incredibly pleased with herself. Morgan frowned at her, wondering whether she was really _that _pleased at having been right about the bomb shelter. However, his musing lasted less than a second—Morgan shook his head, breaking eye contact with the strange girl.

"We have to go down there," he said to the sheriff, gripped by a sudden sense of urgency.

The sheriff sighed. "Agent Morgan, you heard what he said. There's nothing we can—"

"Get Rossi!" he snapped at the sheriff, already pushing his way for the door. His mind bounced from Hotch to Reid—from Jack to Henry—was there any chance that they were still alive?

"They'll be alright," Morgan muttered to himself. "Hotch and Reid have been through bad things before. They'll get through it. They might have escaped. They might have left. They'll be alright. They _have_ to." However, he couldn't dispel the sinking horror settling deep in his stomach that told him he'd never see his friends again.

**O**

"No matter what happens," Hotch said to Jack. "No matter what I do, Jack, just know that I do it because I love you."

Jack was staring at him with a beaten, dirty face, with dark and cynical eyes far too old for a ten year old. "Why does he want to kill us?" he asked.

Hotch swallowed. "Because he's one of the monsters," he said. "He's one of the bad guys that I fight."

"Then why can't you beat him?" Jack asked, his voice laced with the anger and fear of a child unable to understand the indescribable cruelty in the world. It took every fiber in Hotch's being not to reach across the line and hold Jack in his arms.

"Watch yourself, Agent Hotchner!" This voice came from Booker, who was watching the pair of them like a hawk from up above, a gleeful and wild expression painted on his face.

Reid, who had been in his own world up until this point, was seemingly jolted back to reality by this phrase. Jack and Hotch watched as the young man walked, slightly dazed, to stand before a bemused looking Booker.

"I'm insane," Reid said, his voice sounding alien and expressionless. He spoke directly to the ground, refusing to look up. "We all are. But it doesn't matter. We live here." He was silent for several more moments, then raised his head to meet Booker's eyes. This time, when he spoke, his voice sounded more like his own.

"You can shoot me if you want," Reid said. "But I'm not going to kill anyone. Because I'm tired. My whole life has been a nightmare and I'm tired." And then he walked across the room, sat down in the corner, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes.

Jack and Hotch stared at him, dumbfounded. Booker looked slightly disoriented for several moments before regaining his composure and turning towards Hotch. "Well," he said, "Looks like Spencer has made his choice. Should make yours that much easier, Agent Hotchner."

Hotch stared at Jack's face for several more moments—finally, he felt his resolve stiffen. He backed away from Jack and turned towards where Henry was sitting. The child was staring at him with eyes that were wide and sad and confused—but not frightened. Henry assumed he was looking at his protector instead of his murderer.

"_Daddy!"_

Hotch stopped in his tracks, then turned to face his son again. Hotch immediately saw that his son had deduced what the younger child was unable to—and the expression of realization was one of such anguish and horror that Hotch felt as if his heart had turned to stone.

He walked back towards the line, his movements agitated and furious. "You don't understand," he spat at Jack. "I _have _to do it, Jack. It's the only way to save you."

Tears streamed down his son's pale face. Jack let out a cry of anger and reached across the line towards his father—Hotch flinched away from him.

"No crossing the white line!" Booker cackled joyously, from the rafters, pointing an accusing finger at Jack. "You _should _know better, young Mr. Hotchner, but I'll let you off _just_ this once. After all, what's one little blunder in a game among friends?"

Jack completely ignored him. He was staring at his father. "Please don't," he whispered. "You fight the monsters. You have to keep fighting them."

"You're too young to understand," Hotch hissed, begging his son to see reason. "Sometimes you _can't _fight the monsters! Why the _hell_ do you think your mother's dead, Jack? I have to protect you! You're all I've got left! _Alright?_ Sometimes there's nothing you can do! Sometimes you have to let them win!"

Jack stared at him blankly. Instead of fear, however, there was a strange sort of defiance in his face. "I know," he whispered. "It's okay if you lose, dad. It's okay."

"You have to understand," Hotch whispered, his voice losing its anger and simply coming out weak and broken. "You have to understand…"

"It's okay if the monsters win," Jack said. Despite the defiance, there was also a determined, sort of forgiveness—as if Jack knew better than Hotch what his decision with be. "But don't be one. Please don't. You're the good guy that fights them. You're the guy that's always working the case. I know good guys don't always win. I don't care if you lose fighting monsters. But don't be one. I want you to be the good guy. Don't be one of the monsters. _Please, daddy._"

All of the anger and panic that Hotch had felt during the past few days seemed to evaporate, overwhelmed by the all-encompassing feeling of love and devotion towards his son. He stood staring at Jack for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he stepped forwards and crouched down beside Jack. "Okay," he whispered.

He stood up straight and turned towards Booker, who was looking at him with an air of excited anticipation. "You're a monster," Hotch said simply, before stepping across the white line and pulling Jack into a tight embrace.

"_NO!" _Booker screeched, his voice distorted by absolute fury at this unexpected turn of events. "_You can't cross the white line! If you don't get back there, I'll shoot you! I'll shoot you both! I'll shoot you _all!_"_

Hotch wasn't listening. He simply held his son in his arms, as tight as he possibly could, vowing to never move from this spot, to never let him go again. "I love you, Jack," he whispered.

"_I'll kill you all! _All_ of you! You think I won't? Goddamnit, Spencer, if you don't wake up now, I'll kill those kids in front of you. Once these thirty minutes are up, I'll splatter your giant brain all over the goddamn floor!"_

"Daddy?"

"I'll always be fighting the monsters for you," Hotch whispered. "Okay?"

"_You're all idiots! You're a bunch of weak, cowardly fools! You're useless! I'll be _glad _to kill you! I'm going to kill your son, Agent Hotchner. You're going to watch me _kill your son!"

"Daddy?" Jack asked again, this time more earnestly.

"What is it?" Hotch asked, still unwilling to let go of his son despite Booker's continuing threats. "What's wrong?"

Jack pulled back slightly to stare his father in his face. "I'm not sure," he whispered. "But I think I smell smoke."


	26. Chapter 26

**So, this is the "last" chapter. I am unsure whether or not to write an epilogue—on the one hand, I'm a huge fan of ambiguous endings—they're a lot more fun, because they leave the ending up to the reader's imagination (which is what fanfiction is all about, right?) On the other hand, I feel as if you guys deserve some sort of explanation after the ending I've thrown at you—so, I'll see what kind of responses I get, and if everyone is really confused or wants some sort of closure I'll probably write an epilogue (I might end up writing one either way.)**

**Overall, I just wanted to thank everyone who has stuck with me throughout this whole story (I'm pretty sure it's at least 45,000 words, which I consider an awful lot of writing.) I really cannot thank you guys enough. I hope you all realize how awesome you are, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

"_I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain. One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well…the struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy."__ –Albert Camus_

Reid awoke to heat.

He hadn't actually intended to fall asleep. It was more of an escape than anything—he had wanted the voices to stop. He had wanted the pain in his leg to stop. He had wanted Tobias and Booker and Hotch to all _just go away, _he had wanted to pretend he was somewhere else, he had wanted to close his eyes and wake up after the nightmare was over. What he had forgotten, apparently, was the fact that he hadn't slept in at least forty-eight hours. He was barely conscious for two seconds before everything descended into a calm, peaceful blackness.

But when he woke up, the nightmare wasn't over.

Reid had no idea how much time had passed. He pushed himself to his feet, struggling to take in his surroundings. Booker was still standing on top of the rafters—but he looked uneasy instead of cheerful. Hotch was shouting up at him—but Reid wasn't listening to the words. It was hot. _Much _too hot.

"What's going on?" he asked. He looked around for Tobias—but Tobias had disappeared once again. Reid gritted his teeth—why was he never around when he _actually _needed him?

Reid stumbled towards Hotch. "What's happening?" he asked, clasping his boss' shoulder for support—his leg _really hurt_. "Why is it so hot?"

Hotch's gaze said everything—he was terrified, but didn't want to show it in front of Jack. "There might be a fire," he said softly, his grip on his son's arm tightening significantly.

"There's _no _fire!" Booker shouted, raising his gun in the air, his eyes burning with irrational anger.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Hotch said, speaking with the well-trained voice of a profiler.

"They don't know we're down here!" Booker shouted, turning the gun on him. "There's no way!"

"Eva does," Hotch said carefully. "Think about it. What better way get rid of the evidence? Nobody knows what she's done except the five of us. Maybe she's grown tired of playing games with you."

"_I'm _playing the games!" Booker shouted, his voice distorting with anger. "Not her! Not you! _Me!_"

"We have to get out of here now," Hotch said, his voice dark and severe. "We're all going to die unless you show us the way out of here. She's going to get away with it unless we live."

But Booker wasn't listening. He had stopped his violent outbursts and was now standing very still, staring at the ground. The smell of smoke grew stronger—small wisps of it began to creep underneath the door. Henry started to cry.

Hotch shook his head. "Fine," he snapped. "We'll get out of here ourselves."

"_NO!" _Booker shouted, instantly springing into action. Reid automatically took a step towards Henry, but Booker turned the gun on him. "DON'T MOVE!" he shouted. "THE GAME IS OVER WHEN _I SAY IT IS!_"

"You're delusional!" Hotch shouted. "You're insane! We're all going to die!" Henry started to cry again, louder this time. Jack slipped out from under his father's legs and bolted over to Henry, as if hoping that Booker would fail to notice him on account of his size.

He was wrong. In a wild gesture of rage, Booker turned the gun on the two boys.

Reid stood petrified in horror, watching the scene unfold, knowing that any movement on his part would only make things worse. Hotch, however, completely lost control.

"YOU COWARD!" he shouted at Booker, so loud that Booker stopped what he was doing and stared at Hotch in astonishment. "You're a coward and a fool," Hotch hissed, glad at having diverted his attention for several moments. "Your sister outsmarted you, and you're taking out your anger on people who can't fight back. You're the victim of your own game, Lloyd."

Booker was seething with anger by this point. "Take it back," he snapped.

"Or what?" Hotch replied, letting out a laugh. "You'll kill me? We're all going to die anyways. You're not going to kill me because you don't want to accept that the game is over. You won't kill me. You won't kill any of us. You're too much of a fool. Of a _coward_. Too much of a—"

The rest of Hotch's sentence was cut off by a loud, deafening shot.

Things moved in slow motion—Reid might have heard screaming, but the ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear anything. Hotch staggered backwards for a second, clutching his chest, then collapsed onto the ground.

Everything was completely silent for less than a second. Then, Jack got to his feet—his eyes wide, his hands shaking—and, slowly, took one step towards Hotch, before stopping—as if too frightened to continue—and then collapsing onto his knees again, his eyes not moving from his father's figure. Mechanically, Reid bent down and felt for a pulse. He felt nothing. "Hotch?" he whispered.

There was no answer.

"The game isn't over." Reid's eyes were jolted away from his fallen teammate as Booker started to speak. His voice was strange—it was dazed, disembodied, and almost remorseful. "It's not over yet. Is it, Spencer?"

Reid just stared at Booker numbly—he was slowly being obscured as the room filled with rising smoke. "We never wanted to play your game," Reid whispered. It was at this point that Henry's crying started up again—Reid ran over to him and picked him up off the ground, unsure of what else to do. "I want to go home," Henry whimpered, over and over. "I want to go home, Dr. Reid. I want to go home."

Reid didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. By the time he had turned around, Booker was gone.

**O**

"Have they heard any news?" Rossi demanded. The sheriff had just gotten off of the phone with one of his officers—although he knew there was nothing he could do to help, Rossi couldn't suppress the feeling that he should have gone with Morgan instead of staying at the station.

The sheriff shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "Your teammate and a few of my guys drove down there to check out the scene, but it doesn't look good so far—it's difficult for them to get at the fire. They're not going to send any men in just yet—it's a suicide mission, and besides, we aren't even sure if there's anyone down there. He could have set fire to the place to get rid of evidence."

"There would have been no reason for that," Rossi said, "especially since he had no indication that we even knew the place existed. Setting it on fire would just call attention to it—and it's not like there's anything he needs to hide. We already know his identity."

"So, what's the point?" the sheriff asked. "Is there something we're missing?"

"That," Rossi said, "Or it was an accident. The amount of chemicals he must have needed in order to make all these explosives he's using—it's bound to create a hazardous work environment."

"Well, let's hope for that one," the sheriff said. "If this son-of-a-bitch burns to death in a chemical fire, it'll be the bare minimum punishment for the people he's killed."

"True," Rossi muttered darkly, "As long as his victims don't burn with him."

"Sir!" Both Rossi and the sheriff turned around, surprised, as Eva Booker approached them. She was holding a cell phone. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I've just been interrupting your investigation. My friend just called me—I'm going to stay over at her house."

Rossi was surprised at this rapid change in opinion. "Are you sure?" he asked her.

She nodded. "Yes," she said. "I do hope you'll call me when you find any news on him—_zoom—_but this whole thing has been incredibly taxing on my nerves." She gave Rossi a smile. "Lloyd's made his decisions, and I have to accept that he wasn't the person I thought he was." She paused for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders once. "What I mean," she said, "Is that I suppose it's time to move on."

Rossi gave the girl a sympathetic smile—he could only suspect that this sudden calmness was some sort of defense mechanism, but he was glad that she would finally be out of the police station. "Of course," he said. "We'll call you as soon as we hear any news."

Eva's smile widened. "You've all been awfully nice to me," she said. "I can't thank you enough. A lot of people would have kicked me out the door for being such a nuisance. _Zoom._"

"No need to thank us," the sheriff said, although the large smile on his face suggested he was quite alright with the flattery. "We're just doing our jobs, miss. You have a nice day now."

"Thank you," Eva said, glancing briefly at the sheriff. "Goodbye, Agent Rossi," she added with a smile. "It's been very nice meeting you. _Zoom._" Then she glanced back down at her phone and walked out of the police station, not looking back.

"Well, thank goodness _she's_ gone," the sheriff said. "Family members are always a bit of a distraction, especially if they can't get control of their emotions."

"Yes," Rossi muttered. For some inexplicable reason, however, he couldn't dispel the feeling that they'd made a huge mistake by allowing her to walk out the doors.

"What's wrong?" the sheriff asked. "I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Yes," Rossi muttered. "But, it's just… she _is_ his sister." He paused for a moment, struggling to find a rational excuse for his hunch. "Sometimes people remember things that they don't even know are important."

"So we might learn he was afraid of clowns as a kid," the sheriff chortled, rolling his eyes. "In all truthfulness, Agent Rossi, you profilers do good work, but there's a point where you need to stop focusing on the guy's past and just focus on _catching_ the son-of-a-bitch. We're _so_ close to bringing this guy to justice—we can't afford any more distractions at this point."

"Yes," Rossi muttered, decidedly pushing Eva Booker out of his mind. He would figure it out later—right now, he just needed his friends to get home safely. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

**O**.

"Jack, you have to get up."

"No." The child sat somberly, defiantly, angrily, clasping his father's hand.

"Jack, I'm sorry. I know you want to stay with him. But if you don't come with me, you're going to die."

"We take him with us," Jack said simply. "We have to take him with us or I'm not coming."

Henry started coughing. The smoke was making it difficult to see.

"We can't," Reid snapped. "I have to carry Henry. I can barely walk on my own."

"Then I'll stay here," Jack said bitterly.

"Jack, you're only a child. Your father was just killed. You're not thinking straight. Hotch would have wanted you to come with me. He would _kill you _right now, if he knew what you were doing. You have to—" Reid broke off suddenly as he started coughing himself. They didn't have much time. In a fit of desperation, he grabbed onto Jack's arm and attempted to manually pull him towards the doorway.

"_NO!" _Jack shouted, wrenching his arm away with such force that Reid almost fell to the ground. He threw himself on top of his father. "He died saving _me_," Jack said. "He wanted us to be together."

"You _won't _be together if you're both _dead!" _Reid shouted, completely exasperated. He started coughing again. "Jack, you don't understand. If we don't leave now, we're _all_ going to die."

Jack still didn't move. "People are always saying I don't understand," he said bitterly. "They think that kids can't understand anything. But I _do. _I know that my dad came here to find me because I'm all he's got. Now we're together, and I'm not going to leave him. He wouldn't leave me, and I'm not going to leave him."

Reid just shook his head. He couldn't speak anymore—the smoke was stinging his eyes, burning his nose and his mouth. "He would have wanted you to live," Reid gasped eventually. "Jack…_please…_"

"I don't care," Jack whispered. "It's not about what he wants. It's about what _I _want. I want us to be together. I want…" Jack stopped speaking entirely, his rapid breaths turning into the awful sound of coughing as the smoke filled his lungs. Henry's crying had turned to screaming.

Reid couldn't move. He wished that Tobias were here. He was feeling incredibly lightheaded—his vision started swimming as tears of pain and anger filled his eyes. Numbly, he took a step backwards.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, unsure whether he was speaking to Jack or to Hotch. Then he clutched Henry closer to him and ran for the door.

The next room was slightly clearer, but Reid couldn't see any other doors in sight—just a small ladder leading upwards. "Don't let go of me, Henry," Reid demanded, heading towards the ladder as the terrified child clung to his neck.

"Is Jack going to die?" Henry whimpered, his small voice nearly inaudible. Reid ignored him as he pulled his exhausted body up the ladder, barely able to see through the haze of the rising smoke. After what seemed like an eternity, he had reached the top—he realized that he was now looking down from the same type of rafters Booker had been standing before. He crawled forwards, trying to keep his head down—but the smoke was everywhere.

"Are _we_ going to die?" Henry asked, his voice sounding cloudy and far away. Moments later, the child fell limp in his arms.

"Hold your breath, Henry," Reid although he knew his advice would not reach its listener. He crawled forwards blindly—he shut his eyes against the smoke and reached out in front of him, praying to find any sort of ladder or door that would get them out of this. What he came in contact with, however, was a human arm.

Reid recoiled in horror—when he raised his hand to his face, he was confronted with the smell of warm blood.

"Booker?" Reid gasped. The villain's face swam into view—Reid felt as if he were going to throw up. Half of the face had been blown off, replaced by a half open skull and a flowing red tide of blood that seeped down his neck and onto his shoulder, inches from Reid's face. One eye stared aimlessly at the ceiling. The handgun lay on the ground several inches away.

"I guess this means you lose," Reid whispered, completely transfixed by horror and anger and a strange sense of satisfaction. He was snapped back to reality, however, by a small flicker of light out of the corner of his eye—inspired by a frantic sense of hope and desperation, he crawled over Booker's bloody figure and towards the light, one hand continuing to clutch Henry to his chest. As he approached it, Reid saw the source of the light—a small hole, several feet above them, beautiful and surreal—

_Sunlight. _

Reid grasped onto the first rung of the ladder, attempting to pull himself up—but his leg gave out underneath him, and he collapsed back onto the ground. Furiously, Reid grabbed onto the ladder again, attempting to climb the rungs using one arm and one leg.

He made it two rungs up before he fell again. Letting out a scream of rage, Reid grabbed on the ladder again. The smoke was even thicker higher up—Reid couldn't breathe anymore—he could feel himself growing dizzier, fainter, weaker.

"_No!"_ he shouted, surprised at the strength of the voice coming from his lungs. "We'll make it, Henry. Don't worry. It wasn't for nothing. I promise. It wasn't for nothing." He pulled himself up one more time, the blood on his hands causing them to slide on the rungs of the metal ladder. "We'll make it. For Hotch. For Jack. For JJ." He pulled himself up another rung—the light seemed miles away. "We'll make it," he said nonetheless, forcing his exhausted body to climb further. "We'll make it…we'll make it…we'll…." He felt his hand slide off of the ladder without ever consciously allowing it—moments later, he crashed to the ground again, the excruciating pain from the fall numbed by his slow and steady loss of consciousness. He felt Henry fall out of his arms and onto the floor, but he couldn't muster the strength to reach out towards him again. The child didn't move.

Reid simply lay there for several moments, barely able to think through the shock and anger and exhaustion. He could hear voices calling his name—voices that sounded familiar but for some reason he couldn't identify. He gazed upwards at the small circle of light. He thought he could see a face swimming into his view, peering down at him from the other side. "Tobias?" Reid gasped. He couldn't make out who it was—it was nothing more than a silhouette. _Was this the joke all along?_ Reid thought bitterly, no longer able to speak. _It was never about the decision. We were always going to die in the end._

Although the face was far away, he could hear Tobias' voice as if it were right beside him. "It was _always _about the decision," the voice said. Reid continued to stare at the circle of light. More faces appeared. But they seemed so unreachable—so far away and insignificant. He hated the circle of light. It wasn't a rescue—it was a torment.

_My whole life's been a nightmare,_ he thought. _And I'm so, so tired…_

Seconds later, he was enveloped in darkness.


	27. Chapter 27

_**So **__**apparently people wanted an epilogue.**_** I was surprised to see that there were a few people who seemed legitimately **_**angry **_**because they thought the last chapter was the end of the story (to give you an idea, after the 10****th**** or 11****th**** review, I stopped thinking, "hooray! A review alert!" and started thinking, "oh god, not another one…") But you guys were right. That ending wouldn't have just been incomplete and annoying, but unfair to anyone who spent time reading the story (I really **_**was **_**going to write an epilogue all along, but I did a perfectly horrible job explaining that in the last author's note, so it was completely my fault and I'm sorry.) So I decided to post this last chapter early as an apology. **** Once again, I would like to thank anyone who **_**did **_**leave a review, including the reviews with criticisms—although they aren't always fun to read, you have taken your time to help me improve my writing, which I really appreciate.**

_**Anyways, **_**the epilogue is fairly long (at least, compared to the rest of the chapters of the story) and I really should have split it into two chapters for the sake of balance—but this thing has gone on long enough already (50,000 words, what the fuck) and if I left off with another cliffhanger people might have actually murdered me out of sheer irritation.**

**And finally (after the longest author's note in the history of the universe) I would really, **_**really**_** like to hear what you think of the last chapter and of the story in general (now that it's **_**actually **_**over.) SO TELL ME! (…please?)**

**THANKS FOR READING! YOU'RE ALL AWESOME!**

"_The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because it is only intangible ideas, beliefs, concepts, fantasies, that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People—well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend—they can go on and on." –Chuck Palahniuk_

"The prosecution would like to call Derek Morgan to the stand."

Morgan looked nervous. Not in any way that could be apparent to the jury—only to someone who knew him well. His posture was stiffer than usual, his jaw set firmly, his eyes were hard and cold and angry. Rossi wished he could offer some sort of support—although he knew Morgan was perfectly accustomed to testifying in court, this case was different.

The prosecutor got to his feet. He was a somewhat portly man of forty or so years—Rossi could not, for the life of him, remember his name. "Derek Morgan," the prosecutor said, "When was the first time you met the defendant?"

Morgan glanced once at the jury. "The day before the fire," he said.

"And where was that?"

"At the Boston police station."

"Is the defendant in this room?"

"Yes."

"Can you point to her?"

Without missing a beat, Morgan reached across the stand and pointed a finger directly at Eva Booker. She sat with her legs crossed, her foot bouncing up and down, her eyes staring back at her accuser unflinchingly. She didn't look friendly nor unfriendly—in fact, she gave off the air of someone who was rather bored.

"And what did she tell you?"

"Objection," the defense attorney called out in a bored voice. "Hearsay."

"Sustained," the judge said.

The prosecutor cleared his throat. "What time did she arrive at the police station?" he asked.

"Four in the afternoon."

The prosecutor glanced at his notes. "And what time was the fire estimated to have been set?"

"Quarter to four, the same day."

"Approximately how long, Agent Morgan, does it take to drive from the site of the fire to the Boston police station?"

"Ten to fifteen minutes."

"So, what you are saying, Agent Morgan—is that it would have been feasible for Miss Booker to have set the fire, then have driven to the police station within this ten to fifteen minute time period, in an attempt to create an alibi for herself?"

"Objection," the defense attorney snapped. "The prosecution is leading the witness."

"Sustained," the judge said. "Let's move this along."

The prosecutor cleared his throat. "Can you describe your job for me, Agent Morgan?" he asked.

Morgan glanced briefly at Rossi. "As my colleague stated earlier," he said, "I work at the behavioral analysis unit at the FBI. We analyze the behavioral patterns of criminals to deliver a psychological profile."

"And what is the point of this 'profile?'" asked the prosecutor.

"To aid in the criminal's capture," Morgan said stiffly. "Getting inside a criminal's head allows us to narrow down the suspect pool."

"And what kind of success rate do these profiles have?"

"It's difficult to measure objectively," Morgan said. "But my team has a very good track record."

"Prior to Miss Booker's arrest by the Boston Police Department, did you or did you not compile a profile on Miss Eva Booker?"

"Objection!"

"Sustained."

"What I meant to ask, Agent Morgan, was your professional opinion regarding Miss Booker's psychological criminal profile."

"Objection!" shouted the defense attorney. "Speculation!"

The judge gave the defense attorney an irritated look. "Overruled," he said. "Agent Morgan has already been approved as an expert witness. You may answer the question." The defense attorney sat down, looking rather embarrassed.

Eva laughed.

"We compiled a profile shortly after the fire," Morgan said. "We detained her immediately following that. Both she and her brother grew up in an unstable home environment, which has been shown to contribute to psychopathy. She did not seem to have any friends or even acquaintances at the school which she attended. When questioned about her parent's deaths, she showed an unemotional, atypical reaction, yet when she was in the police station before the fire she had no trouble manipulating the police into believing that she was upset."

"Objection," the defense attorney said again.

The judge sighed. "Why?" he asked.

"Relevancy," the defense attorney asked.

"Overruled." The judge sighed. "The expert's opinion in his area of expertise is hardly irrelevant. Can we—"

"Objection!"

"I haven't even _said _anything!" snapped the prosecutor.

"Overruled," the judge snapped again. "Could the defense _please _allow the prosecution to complete the direct examination of their witness?"

The defense attorney sat down again, looking angry.

"Agent Morgan," the prosecutor continued, "Could you please tell the jury whom you believe—in your expert opinion—was the person most likely responsible for the fire which killed Aaron and Jack Hotchner?"

Morgan pointed again. "Eva Booker."

"Could you explain how you arrived at this conclusion?"

"She wasn't seen by anyone going in or out of her home during the two weeks leading up to the fire," Morgan said. "Arson fits the profile because it is depersonalized and methodical. She was able to simultaneously kill her intended victims and dispose of any evidence that might have incriminated her."

"Could you list the other experts on your team who disagree with your opinion?"

"There are none."

The prosecutor glanced at the judge. "No further questions," he said.

All eyes fell to the opposite side of the room—the defense attorney appeared to be having a whispered conversation with his client. Looking more and more irritated by the minute, the judge said, "Would the defense like to cross examine the witness?"

The defense attorney stood up. "Yes, your honor," he said. There was an air of arrogance about him, to the point where it bordered on laziness—as if the entire trial was a waste of his time. He took several steps towards Morgan. "You were a good friend of the Hotchners," he said, smiling. "Were you not?"

"Objection!" the prosecutor shouted immediately. "Relevancy?"

"Goes to the credibility of an expert witness," the defense attorney said.

"Sustained," the judge replied. "Like I said earlier, Agent Morgan has been approved as an expert witness, as he was one of the police officers originally assigned to the case."

The defense attorney sighed. "Agent Morgan," he said, "You yourself were present at the scene of the fire. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"There were five people trapped in the building, were there not?"

"Yes."

"And you managed to save two of them."

"That's right."

"Did you happen to know—"

"_Objection!" _shouted the prosecutor. "Relevancy?"

"Providing the jury with an accurate depiction of the crime scene," the attorney said earnestly, smiling at the judge.

The judge sighed. "Overruled," he said. "But make your point quickly, please."

"Did you happen to know any of people rescued from the crime scene?" asked the attorney.

Morgan was glaring at him. "Yes. They were on my team."

The attorney smiled. "Alright," he said. "Moving along. Am I right to assume that behavioral profiling is an objective behavioral science?"

"Objection!" the prosecutor said. "That's a vague question."

"Sustained," the judge said. "Please clarify yourself."

"Of course," the attorney said. "What I meant to ask, Agent Morgan, is this—is a behavioral profile an objective scientific tool to the extent that it should be considered as evidence against a defendant in a court of law?"

Morgan gritted his teeth, trying to remain calm. "Yes," he said.

"Has your team at the BAU ever incorrectly accused a suspect based on an inaccurate profile?"

"Objection!"

"Overruled."

Morgan cleared his throat. "We have a very successful history of—"

"Just a simple yes or no will suffice, Agent Morgan."

Rossi could almost see the daggers shooting form Morgan's eyes. "Yes," he said, "But—"

"Would you agree, Agent Morgan, that a tool which is often inaccurate should not be considered objective scientific evidence?"

"Objection! Calls for speculation!"

"Sustained," the judge said.

"As you wish," the attorney said, with a sidelong glance at the jury. "Agent Morgan," he said, "I am assuming that you feel anger towards the killer of these victims?"

"Objection!" shouted the prosecutor for the umpteenth time.

"Relevancy?" the judge asked the attorney.

"Pertains to the emotional state of the witness at the time of his professional evaluations of the defendant," the attorney said.

The judge sighed again. "Fine," he said eventually.

Morgan gritted his teeth. "I don't see how this—"

"It's a simple question, Agent Morgan," the prosecutor said. "Three of your friends killed. Two _almost _killed. This was a horrible crime, there's no doubt of that—so, _were you angry? _Or did it just—you know—roll off of you? No big deal?"

"Objection!" shouted the prosecutor furiously, getting to his feet. "The defense is bullying my witness!"

"Overruled," the judge said. "Let's move things along, here."

Although he was doing a good job of hiding it, Rossi could tell that Morgan desperately wanted to strangle the attorney. "Yes, I was angry," he said. "But that doesn't mean—"

"No further questions, your honor," the attorney said, cutting Morgan off in the middle of his sentence and returning to his seat.

"Does the prosecution have any further questions for the witness?" The prosecutor shot Rossi a helpless glance, then shrugged. It was becoming more and more obvious that Morgan and Rossi would not be able to provide sufficient evidence to convict Eva. After shuffling through some more papers, the prosecutor got to his feet.

"No, your honor," he said. "I would like to call my next witness."

"Proceed," said the judge.

_This is going to be bad, _Rossi thought helplessly. _Very, very bad._

"The prosecution would like to call Spencer Reid to the stand."

**O**

Reid hadn't been paying attention to the trial.

Well, he _had. _He had tried, anyways. But he couldn't stop staring at Eva. He couldn't stop picturing Jack and Hotch and JJ and wanting to leap across the room and tear her head from her neck.

He was sitting in the back of the courtroom. It was too hot in there. Much, much too hot. And he had been feeling so _tired _lately, so tired and so _very _nauseous, and there had been more nightmares last night but he had flushed all of the drugs down the toilet—well, alright, so he _hadn't, _but he was _going _to as soon as he got home. Well, not _all _of them, but _most _of them. His leg still hurt from time to time. And all night he hadn't been able to stop the nightmares, the nightmares of smoke filling his room and of the sound of the gunshot that had killed Hotch, the sound of Jack crying and the blood on his hands as they slipped down the ladder and being _so, so sure that he would never wake up…_

"The prosecution would like to call Spencer Reid to the stand."

Reid froze. Had he heard correctly?

Everyone was staring at him.

Reid blinked once, then got to his feet slowly. Everyone was still staring at him.

Reid stared at the prosecutor as he walked up. The man nodded at him encouragingly—Reid simply glared at him furiously, trying to quell the panicked thoughts racing around in the back of his head.

_Youpromisedyouwouldonlycallm etothestandinthecaseofextrem ecircumstancesyouasshole,goddamnit,goddamnit,goddamnit_

Reid swallowed nervously, trying to get the voice in the back of his head to be quiet. But it wouldn't. It was almost worse than Tobias.

_You miss Tobias._

Reid shook his head back and forth rapidly. _Shut up, _he thought. _Shut up shut up shut up shut up_

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I do," Reid said. His soft voice seemed to ring out to the entire courtroom. It sounded strange and alien.

_They know what you did. They know you left Jack behind. This whole room knows. They know. Eva knows. Morgan knows. Everyone knows. You should have died then. They know. They know_

Before he truly knew how he had gotten there, Reid was sitting facing the courtroom. It would have been alright if they would only stop _staring_ at him.

_They're not going to believe you. They're not going to believe you. You're as bad as her, and they're not going to believe you. They know what you did, and they're not going to believe you_

"Dr. Reid, could you please answer the question?"

Reid blinked, turned his head towards the judge, then turned back to the prosecutor, who was standing in front of him expectantly. "Um," he said. "Could you repeat the question?"

_That's fantastic. You're off to a horrible start. _

"Would you state your full name and spell your last name?"

"Dr. Spencer Reid," he said. "R-E-I-D."

"Six months ago today, Dr. Reid, how were you employed?"

"I worked at the BAU," he said.

"Alright," he said. "And you hold three doctorates. Is that correct?" The prosecutor smiled at him encouragingly.

"Yes," Reid said. There was a mumble of general astonishment that filled the courtroom.

"Relevancy?" the attorney mumbled, rolling his eyes, although he apparently lacked the initiative to make a formal objection.

The prosecutor turned towards him anyways, responding, "Goes to prove the credibility of the witness."

The attorney smirked.

"Please continue questioning your witness or take a seat," snapped the judge. The prosecutor cleared his throat.

"Could you describe to me what happened between you and Lloyd Booker—Miss Eva Booker's brother—at the outset of the case?"

"Yes," Reid said. He glanced at the prosecutor again—his eyes only said one thing.

_Don't mention the drugs._

Reid cleared his throat. _You rehearsed this. You can do this. Just don't mention the drugs. Don't mention the hallucinations and don't mention the drugs. Easy._

"Yes," he said again, after a rather long pause. "Lloyd Booker was one of the local police officers working on the case with my team. There was a serial killer that had been moving south and appeared to be passing through that area. We knew he was targeting the team after he attacked a local diner, where we were eating. I started to suspect that Booker was the unsub after, after…" he trailed off. "After we realized that the unsub profiled as a narcissist who wanted to prove he was more intelligent than the FBI. Booker was the one who called in the case in the first place, so it fit. But the rest of the team thought I was wrong, and I…" he trailed off. "I was scoping out an alley when Booker attacked me and knocked me unconscious. When I woke up, I had no idea where I was. It looked like a basement. He told me that I needed to help him destroy my team or he would kill me. I refused—because I knew that he wouldn't go to all the effort to abduct me, then to kill me immediately afterwards—and he shot me in the leg. When I woke up, I was in the hospital."

"Objection," the defense attorney said. "The witness is narrating. How is any of this relevant to Miss Booker?"

"Relates directly to the conspiracy to commit murder charge," the prosecutor replied.

"Overruled," the judge said. "Please continue." The defense attorney resumed his seat, looking slightly put out.

"Booker left a note for my team at the crime scene taunting us. He kept calling it a 'game.' When Hotch tried to take our team off the case, Booker showed up at his house and killed his sister in law, Jessica, and abducted his son, Jack. After we left the hospital, Hotch and I stayed in Vermont to interview Eva Booker, Lloyd's sister."

"Can you identify Miss Booker for me, Dr. Reid?"

"Right there," Reid said, pointing directly at Eva. While he tried to avoid eye contact with her, he made the mistake of glancing at her face for a fraction of a second. She smirked at him.

"What happened during the interview?" the prosecutor prompted.

Reid gritted his teeth, trying to get his immense anger under control, then replied, "Really, nothing. She gave us no useful information. She just kept making references to chess, like Booker did. But when I asked her about her dead parents, she _did _respond strangely. She just kind of laughed."

"Objection," the defense attorney said. "Dr. Reid has _not _been cleared as an expert witness with the court."

"Sustained," the judge said. "The jury is to draw no conclusions from Dr. Reid's speculations on Miss Booker's behavior. Can we move this along, please? The jury already knows the basic details of the case."

_Dr. Reid has not been cleared as an expert witness—they're not going to believe you—_

"When was the next time you encountered Miss Booker?" the prosecutor prompted.

Reid swallowed nervously. "Well," he said. "I was outside the police station, and I thought I saw Jack Hotchner run past. I tried chasing after him, but I had to stop because my leg gave out. Booker cornered me and Eva hit me in the head with something—and the next thing I know I woke up and she was sitting there."

"Miss Booker was just...'sitting there?'"

"Yes."

"So, Miss Booker was actively conspiring with her brother, Lloyd Booker, to abduct you and to hold two other children hostage?"

"Objection!" the defense attorney shouted. "The prosecution is leading the witness. _Again._"

"Sustained."

The prosecutor sighed. "Was Eva helping her brother?" he asked.

"Yes," he said. "She was keeping Jack and Henry hostage. Henry would remember her, if he saw her right now. He would—"

"Objection!"

"Yes, yes, sustained," the judge said, "Henry LaMontaigne has been declared incompetent to stand trial, and the jury should draw no conclusions from Dr. Reid's statements."

The prosecutor sighed. "And when was the last time you saw Eva?"

"Right before the fire," Reid said.

"What was she doing?"

"She was arguing with her brother," Reid said.

"About what?"

"She didn't want to bring children into the game," Reid said. "She considered it boring."

_And then she lit the place up and I left Jack behind, I left him behind and I'm no better than her…_

The prosecutor nodded, smiled at Reid, then said, "No further questions, your honor."

"Would the defense like to cross examine the witness?"

The defense attorney got to his feet. "Yes, your honor."

_You have to get out of here,_ a voice hissed to him in the back of his head. _They aren't going to believe you…_

"Dr. Reid," he began, "Is it true that your mother suffers from paranoid schizophrenia?"

Reid just stared at him. "Wh-what?"

"Objection!" the prosecutor shouted, springing to his feet.

"Could the defense please explain the reasoning behind their question?" asked the judge, looking puzzled as well.

"Goes to the credibility of the witness, in terms of his mental competency and the reliability of his accounts."

The judge narrowed his eyes. "Overruled," he said. "You may answer the question, Dr. Reid."

Reid opened his mouth. "I…"_ Too late. You have to get out. They aren't going to believe you_

"If you don't quite remember," the attorney said, giving him an infuriatingly patronizing smile, "I have the medical records right here."

Reid glared at him. "Yes," he snapped eventually. "Yes, _my mother _suffers from paranoid schizophrenia. And my father suffers from kidney stones occasionally, in case you feel like that's important."

The defense attorney looked rather taken aback at this response, which resulted in scattered laughter throughout the courtroom. Looking more and more annoyed by the moment, the judge slammed his gavel down several times until it was silent. Reid felt his confidence swell significantly as the room full of faces looked upon him with amusement instead of suspicion.

"You first remarked," the attorney continued, "That you were attacked by Booker while scoping out an alleyway. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Reid said.

"By this point, you stated that you already believed Booker was the suspect. Is that correct?"

"That's right."

"So, despite the fact that you believed a serial killer targeting _your _team was at large and well-equipped with a gun, you decide to scope out a deserted alleyway, alone, with no backup?"

Reid opened his mouth, then closed it. "I…I was upset that nobody believed me," he said. "I wanted to prove that I was right. I realize now it was a foolish decision."

"Yet you didn't think to bring your gun with you?"

Reid blinked at him. "What?"

"Your gun was left back at the police station. You didn't feel as if you needed it to defend yourself?"

"Objection!"

"Overruled."

"I…I guess I forgot it," Reid muttered. "Who cares?"

The prosecutor cleared his throat. "Dr. Reid," he said, "Would you consider yourself to have been…in the 'right state of mind,' when this abduction took place?"

Reid opened his mouth, then closed it. "I…yes."

"Dr. Reid, I have right here a witness testimony from the police chief of the town where you were staying, stating that you disappeared for an entire day during the course of the investigation, and were found twenty-four hours afterwards, wandering around in the local park, covered in your own blood. Is this true?"

"Objection!"

"Overruled," said the judge, frowning at Reid. "Answer the question."

"I…" Reid trailed off, making eye contact with the prosecutor, who was looking back and forth from him to the judge with narrowed eyes. He gave Reid a very brief nod. "Yes, that's true," Reid admitted.

"So, Dr. Reid—should I be correct to make the assumption that, while in the aforementioned 'right state of mind,' you have the tendency to disappear for more than twenty-four hours, wandering the streets, covered in blood. Does this happen often?"

"Objection!"

"Overruled," the judge said, casting the prosecution an irritated look. "I would like an explanation for this, if you don't mind."

Reid swallowed nervously. Although he couldn't see her from where he was seated, he could tell that Eva was smirking.

_They don't believe you. They don't believe you. She's going to get away with it because they don't believe you_

"No," Reid said. "I—I wasn't in my right state of mind _then._"

"Really?" he said. "Interesting. Did that have anything to do with the traces of LSD, Mescaline, and amphetamines that were found in your blood work upon your admittance to the hospital following your twenty-four hour disappearance?"

Reid glanced at the prosecution and then back at the defense attorney, panicking.

"Dr. Reid?" prompted the judge.

"Well…well, yes," he said, his voice coming out higher than normal. "Probably. That was probably a contributing factor. But, it was—Booker poisoned me. He put them in my coffee. He told me."

"But you didn't feel it was important to mention this in your testimony earlier?"

Reid swallowed nervously. "No," he said. "No, I didn't think it was relevant."

"Upon learning that you had been poisoned," the attorney continued, "Were you at all concerned by the fact that hallucinogenic substances—such as the ones described—had been linked to the onset of psychosis in people with a genetic inclination towards schizophrenia?"

"_Objection!"_

"Sustained."

"No," Reid answered immediately, despite the fact that the judge had sustained the question. "No, I wasn't."

The faces had become suspicious again. Reid searched for Morgan's face in the crowd—but he was unable to make eye contact. The older profiler was too busy staring at the defense attorney with a look of supreme hatred.

_They know what you did, they don't believe you—_

_Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up—_

"Is it true," the defense attorney continued, "That you regularly attended narcotics anonymous meetings several years ago?"

"Objection!"

"Relevancy?" the judge asked.

"Dr. Reid is the only person who claims to have seen Eva Booker in the process of committing a crime," the attorney continued. "When questioning the mental stability of the witness, I think that previous drug use is incredibly relevant, your honor."

"Overruled," the judge said. "Please answer the question, Dr. Reid."

"I…" Reid trailed off. "Y-yes, I used to attend the meetings for Dilaudid. But I don't anymore."

_Why did you say that? _The voice inside his head was shouting at him furiously. _Don't tell him that! _

"Dr. Reid?"

Reid blinked. "C-could you repeat the question?"

_They all already know everything. They don't believe you—they _shouldn't _believe you. I have to get out of here, have to get out of here_

The defense attorney smiled kindly. "Of course," he said. "Isn't Dilaudid a type of heroin?"

_You can't prove it. They won't believe you. You're insane and they won't believe you_

"Yes," Reid said. "It's a type of heroin."

"Were you prescribed painkillers for the gunshot wound to your leg, Agent Reid?"

"Yes," Reid whispered. Morgan and Rossi were staring at him helplessly. And Eva was smiling.

S_he knows she'll get away with it and they won't believe you _

"They prescribed oxycodone?" the prosecution said.

"Yes," Reid replied.

"When your prescription bottle of oxycodone was found, it was almost entirely empty, despite being a very recent prescription," the defense attorney said. "Do you know why that is?"

Reid didn't answer.

"Dr. Reid?"

"Yes." He refused to look up. He just wanted it to be over.

"You do know?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me why?"

_Have to get out of here—_

"I took more than I was supposed to."

The defense attorney blinked, then allowed a smile to creep across his face—he obviously hadn't been expecting to extract a confession that quickly.

"You took more oxycodone pills than you were supposed to?"

"Yes."

"Am I to understand—simply from the amount of pills remaining in the bottle, after it had been found—that you were taking more than twice the recommended dose?"

"Yes."

"I am just going to go over things one more time, Dr. Reid, so bear with me. At the time you claim to have witnessed Eva Booker in the alleyway with her brother, which was the same time you claim to have witnessed Jack Hotchner running away from you just across the police station, you were on twice the recommended amount of oxycodone pills and were recently recovering from being poisoned by LSD, Mescaline, and amphetamines."

"That…." Reid trailed off, then glanced at his prosecutor. "That was a compound question," he said. "You sh-should have objected to that." He heard some more laughter from the courtroom, but this time it seemed derisive instead of friendly.

_She's going to get away with it. I'm sorry, Hotch. I'm so sorry_

Desperately, Reid reached past the defense attorney and pointed at Eva. "I _saw _her!" he snarled. "She was there. She was playing chess with me. She was there and she was arguing with Booker and, and I knew it was her in the alleyway because she kept saying_ zoom,_ and if she hadn't killed them Hotch and Jack would tell you, they would tell you, and she can't, she can't get away with it—she and her brother killed Hotch and JJ and Jack and they can't get away with it—"

He broke off suddenly, realizing it was hopeless. The courtroom rung with a strange kind of stunned silence. Reid tried not to look at Eva. He wanted to attack her.

_She deserves to die, she deserves to die, I'm not insane and she killed them and she can't get away with it, she deserves to die_

"Just one more question, Dr. Reid," the defense attorney said—he spoke in a calm, friendly tone, as speaking to a child that had just thrown a tantrum. "It says here that you have been placed on a mandatory suspension from the Behavioral Analysis Unit after failing your psychological evaluation and being diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Is this accurate?"

Reid was staring at Eva. He wanted to kill her.

"Excuse me, Dr. Reid. Could you answer the question?"

"I'm right," he whispered. "I'm right. I'm right." _I'm sorry Hotch, I'm sorry_

"Dr. Reid? Just one more question."

"I wish I was insane and wrong," he whispered. "But I'm insane and I'm right. You don't know what it's like—to be insane, and to be right—" And then he broke off again and simply stared at Eva. He could hear the defense attorney speaking to him, but he wasn't listening.

_She's smiling and I'm going to kill her—she killed them and she's smiling and she deserves to die—she deserves to die and I'm going to kill her—_

Eventually, the prosecutor got to his feet. "Your honor," he said, "I don't think Dr. Reid is fit to answer any more questions."

**O**

"Remember that the prosecution has the burden of proof," the judge said. "This means that the prosecution must prove that the defendant is guilty _beyond a reasonable doubt…"_

Morgan wanted to say something to comfort Reid, but he hadn't said a word since he'd finished his testimony. He just sat in the seat beside him, staring at the floor, speaking to no one.

Morgan's phone buzzed—it was a text message from Garcia. She was babysitting Henry, who was currently refusing to speak to anyone besides Reid and Will. Although it was kind of Garcia to offer her help, Morgan had a feeling she had just wanted to avoid the trial.

_Going OK? Made the kid mac and cheese._

"Has the jury reached a decision?"

"We have, your honor."

Morgan sighed.

_Even worse than we thought, _he replied._ Henry alright?_

"We find the defendant, Eva Booker, not guilty on all charges…"

Reid didn't move. He didn't even appear to be listening.

Morgan's phone buzzed again—he glanced at it simply for wont of something to do.

_Won't eat. Keeps asking Will when Reid's coming back._

Morgan shut his phone.

**Two Weeks Later**

The phone rang again.

"They know," Tobias said.

Reid laughed. Things were great. Things were great and beautiful, great and beautiful. Things were great because they felt like nothing. Things were beautiful because they were great.

"Truthfully, though," Reid said. "That was excellent. I mean, it was _horrible_—but excellent. The weird kind of numb sort of excellence. You know? Life when you drive a knife so far into your hand it starts to feel good."

"But that doesn't happen to sane people," Tobias said.

"Perhaps," Reid replied. "Perhaps not."

"Do you think they'll be able to charge you?" Tobias asked.

"Sure, they'll _suspect_ it was me," Reid said, yawning. "But _beyond a reasonable doubt?_"

Tobias laughed.

"I wasn't thinking happy enough, before," Reid said pensively, "Not enough drugs."

"You're not _really_ happy," Tobias said.

Reid shrugged. "I'm too miserable to know the difference."

"What about Henry?" Tobias asked.

Reid shrugged. "It was worth it," he said. "He's better off without me."

The phone started ringing again.

Reid yawned. "Voicemail," he said. Nothing seemed to matter. Everything seemed peaceful and joyful and beautiful because nothing seemed to matter.

"_Reid, this is Morgan. We're coming to your apartment right now. If you don't answer your phone, I'm going to kick down the door. We want to help you, kid, but you have to work with us. I know it wasn't you, alright, but I need to answer your phone, _please, _you have to make it look like you're cooperating with us. I know you don't want to deal with this, Reid, but this is serious. They could put you away for life. Like I said, I know it wasn't you, but if you could just _answer your phone—_"_ The rest of the message was obscured by a loud _beep. _Reid laughed.

"Look at that," Tobias said. "You're a murder suspect and suddenly you're all popular."

Reid yawned. "Took them long enough to find the body," he said. He lay back on the couch. "I wonder if I'll be able to get drugs in prison."

"Clever kid like you?" Tobias said. "Of course, you might end up in a _different _kind of prison, if you're not careful."

"You're right," Reid said. "Got to watch out for that. Just got to remember that I'm a cold-blooded killer and not insane at all." He tossed another pill up into the air and tried to catch it with his mouth. He missed.

"Shit, Tobias," he said. "Can you get that for me?"

"You know what's the saddest thing?" Tobias asked. "If they hadn't already known you were nuts, it would've been the perfect murder."

"Carbon monoxide poisoning," Reid mused, sighing. "Classic household accident."

"You might get away with it, you know. Unless they prove you tampered with the exhaust pipe..."

"Who cares?" Reid asked, yawning. "_I'm_ just glad I finally put that engineering degree to good use."

"They don't have any _conclusive_ evidence," Tobias said. "You were too careful."

"I don't see how it makes a difference," Reid said. "Jail, or no jail. Who cares? I'm damned either way."

The phone started ringing again.

"The strangest thing?" Reid muttered. "Is that I don't feel any better or any worse about it. I feel perfectly exactly the same."

Tobias smiled sympathetically. "It's that feeling," he said. "You just couldn't shake it."

Reid frowned. "What feeling?"

Tobias shrugged. "In the smoke," he said. "You thought you'd never wake up. And it seemed fair, because Hotch and Jack would never wake up. It was unfair, but it was also fair, in a horribly, backwards sort of way. And now that you've woken up…"

Reid laughed. "I never woke up," he said.

"Maybe not," Tobias said. "Maybe one day you will."

There was a loud, resounding knock on the door.

"I hope not," Reid said. "Why would I want to?"

Tobias smiled at him and laughed. And so Reid laughed, too. And they laughed and laughed as they heard the door splinter open, but they kept laughing so as to stay in the dream forever, as if the laughter was a strange sort of defense against madness, a defense against madness and bitterness and death—and he felt arms pulling him off of the couch but he kept on laughing anyways.

"It's just a game, Morgan!" he shouted. "You can't take it all so seriously!"

In truth, he wasn't sure if it even _was_ Morgan in his apartment, or even anyone, or whether the phone was even ringing, or just a product of deranged imagination—or if he was in his apartment at all, or still underneath all the smoke with all of the faces peering down at him as they had been in the courtroom.

It all seemed less real than Tobias, it seemed less real than the laughter, and it seemed less real than the fake, numbing giddiness that was spreading through his veins like divine poison—reality was grayer and sadder and less real than any of the unreal things.

"It's all just intolerably sad," Tobias mused. "Isn't it nice to feel happy?"

"It all decays into absurdity anyways," Reid muttered. "The real world is as meaningless as the fake one."

And human voices faded into the distance—things such as grief and love and anger were far-off and remote in the face of the spinning carousel of senseless ecstasy, and all those dull and muddled earthly apparitions seemed strangely pale when set against the vibrant chords of fantasy.

"Don't worry," Tobias said, everything but his voice fading into the periphery. "We don't have to wake up."

**THE END.**


End file.
